


Bolt from the Blue

by town_without_heart



Series: When Lightning Strikes [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Barry Allen is a precious cinnamon bun, Followed by Series, Harrison Wells is sexy but a total creeper, Leonard Snart is a lovable idiot, Lewis Snart's A+ Parenting, M/M, Pre-Series, Secret Identity, Slow Burn/Freeze, Some Graphic Violence, Spoilers: Seasons 1&2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-05-06 19:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 49
Words: 170,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5428388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/town_without_heart/pseuds/town_without_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Additional Tags: All the Feels!, Sexual Content (not explicit), Some Language (explicit), Madness (which might make some people uncomfortable?), Possible Character Death(s) in the Interest of Plot, The Flash's Identity <i>Isn't</i> the Worst Kept Secret in Central City, (occasional) Panic Attacks. Characters & Tags added with each chapter in order of appearance.</p><p>Leonard Snart meets Barry Allen at a bar two years before the events of episode one and the explosion of the particle accelerator. This changes things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. [1/7] Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years before the events of episode 1, Len and Barry meet at a bar in Central City. The man known as Harrison Wells spies on this development with a scientist's curiosity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/05/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).  
> 05/18/17: Minor revisions, deleted author's notes, added chapter summary.
> 
> For everyone who is reading this story for the first time, my disclaimer: This story portrays _both_ ColdFlash and Barrison. If you're a die hard shipper for one or the other and would like to carry on anyway, please take a moment to brace yourself.

***

**Bolt from the Blue**

_See also: anvil lightning, anvil-to-ground lightning, clear-air lightning_

_The name given to a cloud-to-ground discharge that strikes far away from its thunderstorm of origin. Typically emanating from the highest region of a cumulonimbus cloud, the bolt travels horizontally for long distances before altering to a vertical descent toward earth. Due to the final striking point being a significant distance from the storm, sometimes reaching up to fifteen miles away, this events can occur at locations with clear “blue skies” overhead, which gives this phenomenon its moniker._

_Excerpt from Sixth Grade Science: Chapter 18, Storms_

***

Leonard Snart sits in a dark corner of the bar, leans back against the unforgiving hardwood of the chair, and watches the kid. He watches without staring, keeping track of the movement out of the corner of his eye. He catalogues the kid’s smiles – the one that’s a subtle twist of wry humor, the one that’s more embarrassed than happy, the one that’s so joyous it’s contagious. He listens without looking and keeps track of the different flavors of laughter that come his way – the gentle one that makes the hair on his arms stand up like a whisper on bare skin, the surprised one that’s startled but honest, the particularly loud one that makes a couple of other patrons glance up and chuckle to themselves.

Leonard Snart sits in a dark corner of the bar, leans forward and props his elbows on the hardwood of the table, laces his fingers together and rests his chin on the resulting platform. Lisa is to his left, sipping a beer and talking animatedly to Mick, who is to his right. Mick responds to her light chatter with the occasional grunt as he drinks directly from the pitcher. The conversation flows around Len like he is the solid, jutting rock in the middle of the creek; they are accustomed to his intense gaze, to his lack of response as he thinks. He was quiet even before the kid came into the bar with his friend an hour and a half ago, but both of them know him well enough to leave him alone when he’s like this.

The kid is – approximate height, six-one, lanky – approximate weight, 180 pounds, slender, not overly muscled – approximate shoe size, eleven – hair, brown, messy – eyes, blue, clear – cute. He’s younger than Leonard usually likes them, probably mid-twenties, but there’s something straightforward in the kid’s eyes that is appealing, something that tells Len this kid not only wears his heart on his sleeve, but is unashamed of that fact. Len is a thief by trade; that kind of honesty is refreshingly rare.

The kid’s friend is – approximate height, five-four, hourglass – approximate weight, 120 pounds, curvy, toned – approximate bust, 34B – hair, black, straight – eyes, black, clear – definitely not his girlfriend. Len can see that the kid holds a candle for her, but she plainly doesn’t notice as she points out a few potential dates for the kid around the bar. Leonard is pleased to note that she doesn’t discriminate between men and women when window-shopping for the kid. He isn’t so pleased that he and his crew are sitting in a dark corner of the bar, because the kid’s friend hasn’t seen him, and therefore hasn’t pointed him out as a potential one-night stand.

Leonard Snart has broken into banks with state of the art security. He has planned heists involving up to seven men, accounting for variables down to the minute detail, mapped out to the nearest second. This? This is a cakewalk. It’s like breathing.

He stands, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and dropping five twenties on the table. To Lisa he says, “Don’t wait up for me,” and he sees her eyes follow his gaze to the bar where the kid and his friend sit. 

She smiles, all teeth, and says, “All the cute ones, Lenny. It’s just not fair.”

To Mick, Len says, “I’m paying your tab to keep you happy for the night. Keep a cool head, don’t get arrested, and I’ll call you with the details in a couple of days.”

Mick glances over at the bar, giving both the kid and his friend a thorough once over. “Whichever one you’re after,” he says, “good luck. Both of ‘em look like preppy prudes.”

Lisa smacks Mick on his arm good-naturedly. “Oh, honey, if you knew Lenny, you wouldn’t even need to ask. Messy brown hair and baby blue eyes, that’s been his MO since we were kids,” she tells the other man with a grin. She flags down a nearby busboy and orders another round of beer.

Leonard Snart moves away from the dark corner of the room. He walks with purpose, striding confidently over to the bar where he catches the attention of a bartender. He doesn’t look at the kid as he places an order for a beer. He waits, patiently, for the bartender to grab a bottle from one of the coolers, expertly crack the lid open, and slide it to him with a napkin. Len jots down the number of his most recent burner phone on the napkin. 

He doesn’t look at the kid, but his hearing is keen under usual circumstances, and right now it is focused entirely on the kid and the kid’s friend’s murmured conversation.

“–didn’t see him before, but he’s gorgeous, Baer. Look at the muscles in his arms, yum!”

Excellent. The friend has spotted him, and has brought the kid’s – Baer’s? Hippies for parents, or more likely a nickname – attention to him.

Len risks the barest glance out of the corner of his eye, ghosting over the kid’s face as he tucks the pen back into his pocket, then pulls out his wallet and slides the bartender a crisp ten-dollar bill. There is heat rising in the kid’s face as his friend mentions Len’s arms. A blush. Len didn’t think anyone still blushed in this city; an answering heat pools in his stomach and shoots straight to his cock as he wonders how far down that blush extends.

“Iris, come on, he’s – I mean, there’s no way he’d look twice at someone like me.” The kid smiles, that wry smile that first caught Len’s attention, and glances down at his hands as he fiddles with his nearly empty beer. 

“Don’t you take that tone of voice with me, Barry,” the friend, Iris, replies with a hint of steel in her voice. Barry. The kid’s name is Barry. It suits him. “As I’ve told you before, my friend, you are one of the chosen, of the rare species of adorable nerds, and I don’t think you know just how cute you are when you dial up that blush.”

The comment makes Barry’s already bright face go an even deeper shade, and when the bartender tries to give Leonard his change, Len shakes his head. He nods in Barry’s direction, slides the napkin with his number on it to the bartender instead, and says, “How about you give the kid over there a refill on me.” 

As the bartender moves to fill the order, Len stops pretending that he’s interested in the beer in hand and directs his full, uninterrupted gaze at Barry: more specifically, at Barry’s neck where he can see the red creeping down past the collar of the kid’s shirt.

Iris is still working on Barry’s self-confidence when the bartender places the fresh beer and marked napkin in front of them. The pair pause, looking in unison first at the beer, then at the napkin. Finally, the kid looks up, and Barry’s curious blue eyes meet Leonard’s direct stare for the very first time. For a moment, the room stops. It’s cliché but Len doesn’t think he’s ever had a moment quite like this one. Everyone else fades away – he can’t see them, can’t hear them, but he couldn’t care less because he can see Barry. He can see Barry’s sharp intake of breath, and way his baby blues darken with a sudden, inexplicable desire. He knows his own eyes, usually too intense for most people to feel fully comfortable, reflect that same desire.

Leonard Snart smiles, a tight, controlled little smirk. He looks away, just for a moment, sips his beer. Then he turns his gaze on Barry for a second look, only this time he very slowly, very deliberately makes sure the kid sees the look, sweeping from his beet-red face down the length of his torso, and even further down to where the kid’s jeans have tented noticeably. Len allows his gaze to linger briefly before moving back up to meet the kid’s startled eyes. Without a single word passing between them, the quirk of Len’s lips very clearly says he likes what he sees. He takes another sip of beer.

Len doesn’t think that Barry can get any redder, but he is proven wrong as Iris crows with delight, “That man not only looked twice, Barry, but he undressed you with his eyes the second time around. If you think he’s not interested, so help me God, I will find out where he lives, beat you unconscious with a stick, and deliver you to him wearing nothing but a frilly bow. Go TALK TO HIM!”

Even if the kid does have a crush on her, Len finds himself liking this Iris more and more. The mental image she’s provided is a pleasant distraction as he waits for Barry to either pick up the ball, or drop it entirely. He doesn’t have to wait long.

“Um...” comes the hesitant voice from right beside him. Len lets another pleased smile twist his lips as he turns to meet the kid’s eyes, wide and bright, accented by his red, flushed cheeks. “Hi,” the kid says, clutching both beer and napkin in one hand like a lifeline. The other hand extends out in greeting. “I’m Barry. I’ll be your lobster for the evening.”

That startles an unexpected bark of laughter out of Len. “Leonard,” he replies, and the smile that finds its way to his lips is unplanned. He takes the kid’s hand, and is pleasantly surprised with the firm handshake that puts them on equal ground. “Call me Len.”

“Leonard,” the kid muses thoughtfully. “That’s nearly as bad as Bartholomew. Oh–” Barry hastily backtracks. “Not that your name is bad or anything! It’s just rare that I choke on anyone else’s first name. I mean–” his face, which had toned down to pink, shoots right back to red, “I mean, not like, choke on it literally, it’s just a mouthful. I MEAN–” and red to flaming crimson, “LEN! Len’s good! Len really rolls off my tongue, oh my god–”

Leonard Snart feels the smile on his face threatening to break. He can’t hold it back, nor can he contain the laugh. It’s a low chuckle, seemingly unremarkable.

_(And yet, across the room, Lisa sits up straight in her chair and stares at the kid who made Lenny laugh like that, a look of complete and total wonder on her face.)_

“You really,” Len notes that he still holds Barry’s hand in his own, and neither of them has moved to pull away, “ _really_ weren’t kidding about the lobster thing.” He gives Barry’s hand an experimental little squeeze, and allows his index finger to move, lightly tracing it over the rabbit pulse on the kid’s wrist.

“I’m sorry,” Barry says, so red that Leonard can actually feel the heat that he’s emitting. “I’m so sorry. I get nervous and then I start talking and then I start babbling, and then these _things_ just seem to happen in my mouth – I mean! Not like literally happen, like a party or something – I mean. No. No, there’s no party in my mouth, and again, I’m doing it again–”

Len takes a single step forward, not releasing Barry’s hand as he shamelessly invades the kid’s personal space. “Would it be too forward to tell you that I like the idea of things happening in your mouth, and volunteer my services to further that interest?”

“I–” the kid’s brain seems to suffer a little bit of a meltdown. “I don’t – I mean – You.” The kid blinks and then his mouth is moving again, though clearly his filter seems to have suffered a short-circuit. “You’re completely gorgeous and you have the most amazing eyes and I can feel the muscles in your arm that tell me you work out on a regular basis or possibly have an labor intensive job and all I can think about right now is that I called myself a lobster and you have a great laugh and how can you possibly want to kiss me when I keep– ”

Leonard Snart leans forward and stops the kid’s mouth with a kiss. It’s fast, nothing so explicit as to get them kicked out of the bar. It is the sweep of Len’s tongue in the surprised “oh!” the kid’s mouth makes. It is warm, wet, and just a little bit sloppy. It makes Len’s heart stutter in his chest, and as he pulls back, he resists the urge to lick his lips; Barry’s mouth tastes like cheap beer and beginnings.

Barry’s dazed expression causes Leonard another involuntary smile. That’s three unplanned smiles in three minutes. This could be dangerous.

Len’s heartbeat quickens. He says, “I’m in town on business. I have a hotel room with a hot tub.”

The kid blinks.

Len continues, “I thought I could give you one more reason to blush.”

And Barry, with his bright blue eyes that are clear and honest, and his heart on his sleeve, and his face lobster-red – Barry nibbles his lower lip, swallows nervously, and says, “Just one?”

***

Somewhere in a hidden room in S.T.A.R. Labs, a man who goes by the name Harrison Wells stands, staring at a newspaper from the future. The headline shows him what he desires – the future is intact. The man glances at a separate screen, security cameras switching perspectives to follow a young Barry Allen and, astonishingly, Leonard Snart, as they make their way to a local hotel. He watches as Barry’s fingers reach out to tangle in the front of Snart’s shirt. He watches as Barry tugs the older man into an alleyway, kissing him tentatively. He watches as Snart moves abruptly, pushing Barry until his back is against the alley wall. Snart’s knee presses between Barry’s legs, and he uses one hand to pin Barry’s thin wrists above his head. 

Harrison is entranced. He watches Barry’s head tilt to one side, allowing Snart access to his vulnerable neck. His eyes flutter closed and he’s bites his lower lip as he tries, and fails, to hold back a moan.

The scene gives him pause.

The man known as Harrison Wells has learned many things about Barry Allen over the last twelve years, monitoring the young man’s continued safety from anything that might threaten to harm him. Science fairs and soccer games, sleepless nights spent starring at the secret pinup board with every scrap of evidence accumulated from his mother’s murder – first hidden in the closet of his bedroom, and later migrated to his work space at the precinct. Barry’s nights are restless, and his days are spent running, late, late, always late. Harrison has seen the child grow into the young man, and he has spent years searching every inch of that face for the first warning sign of the man that he despises, the Flash.

Harrison has yet to find any trace of that man, the monster who Barry will one day become. But sometimes his searching reveals something else, something new. And like any good scientist, when new data is brought to light, old information must be updated and revised.

Harrison’s mind is a great and terrible thing, perhaps because it does not belong solely to a scientist born of the 20th century. Thoughts move like lightning along each synapse, a series of rapid-fire bullets – _Leonard Snart far exceeds Barry’s age, yet Barry is undeniably attracted to him – Barry Allen has always been attracted to members of both the male and female genders, but this is the first time his exploration of the male body has gone beyond drunken college fumbling – Barry Allen has grown into an attractive young man who clearly has a healthy sexual appetite – despite all signs to the contrary, the name on the newspaper still reads Iris Allen-West–_

And yet all of these things might not have attracted his attention if not for one curious, fascinating fact – _Barry Allen is beautiful in submission._

The man known as Harrison Wells tucks the thought away, internalizes it, and begins to plan accordingly.

***

Len finds himself loving every inch of Barry’s body. The kid isn’t a mountain of muscle, but he is so very hot, skin practically on fire beneath Len’s perpetually chilly hands. He makes the most delightful little noises as Len licks a particularly sensitive part of his neck, biting hard enough to bruise, and he can feel the kid’s pulse racing at light speed between his teeth. His own blood is pounding in his ears as he bites down again, eliciting a strangled gasp of pleasure from his pliant partner. He presses his body up against that warm, willing one, presses his straining erection into the curve of Barry’s thigh and feels a straining twitch from Barry’s already-stiff erection in reply.

“Hot tub?” Barry groans, and Len releases Barry’s wrists, only to find those deceptively slender arms wrapping around him in an unrelenting embrace. One of Barry’s hands finds its way underneath Len’s shirt, and Len has to forcibly restrain himself as the kid drags his blunt, boy nails down against the length of Len’s back. It stings, but the thought of this fragile-looking kid making him bleed almost makes him lose what little control he’s managed to keep.

“Kid, if you keep it up, there is no way we’ll make it that far,” Len growls. “I will fuck you in this alleyway, we’ll get arrested for indecent exposure, and I’ll have to contact my crew to break us both out of prison.”

“Nah,” the kid says, and his blunt nails scratch down Len’s back again. This time he is positive the kid draws blood. “I’ll pull every favor I have at the station to get it stricken from the record. I’ll probably get mocked for the rest of my life, but no jailbreaks needed.”

Len pauses, plays that over in his head, and feeling far more in control of himself, he asks distantly, “You a cop?”

“Huh?” Barry frowns, a tiny, confused curl of his lips. Len feels the tightness in his stomach settle back down. His instincts haven’t failed him; this kid is not a cop. “Oh! No, sorry,” Barry says. “I’m just an assistant forensic analyst. I work at the precinct and I’ve done pretty much every officer there a favor or two...”

“Favors, hm?” Len has the inexplicable urge to smile as the kid backpedals hastily, the lobster-red blush he’d been sporting at the bar returning full force.

“Oh, um – yes, favor, like putting rush orders on their evidence,” Barry stutters out. He laughs, shaking his head. “You dirty old man, now instead of picturing you naked, I’m picturing every officer I’ve ever worked with naked and oh, ew,” Barry wrinkles his nose, “Yup, there goes my libido. You killed it. You killed it dead.”

At this, Len does smile. He takes a step back from where he still has the kid pinned against the wall, exhales slow and deep, and straightens his shirt. “I’m not _that_ old.”

“What?” Barry straightens his own shirt. “Oh! No, _dirty_ old man, with an emphasis on the ‘dirty,’ not the ‘old.’”

“Well, I suppose it’s good we’re heading to a hot tub, then, if that’s how you feel.” Len grins, watching the red creep back down Barry’s neck. This might become an obsession, seeing just how red he can make Barry blush, with the power of his words alone.

Then again, hot tub. Words probably won’t be necessary.

Barry smiles at him, and Len had it right earlier when he figured that the kid wore his heart on his sleeve. Leonard Snart has kept his cool in the midst of gunfire and high-speed chases. He knows the thrill of the fight, of the chase, of success. He has been a criminal since he was a teenager, and he recognizes that Barry’s smile is very, very dangerous.

Leonard Snart has been chasing dangerous since he was old enough to run.

It is with this thought that he turns from Barry and begins walking down the alleyway. Len glances over his shoulder, eyes taking in the kid’s debauched and rumpled appearance. He smirks and states with finality, “Hot tub. Two blocks. You coming?”

Barry grins.

***


	2. [2/7] Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry and Len make plans for a second date, while the man known as Harrison Wells muses on past, present, and future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/05/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).  
> 05/18/17: Minor revisions, deleted author's notes, added chapter summary.

***

Two days later, Leonard is casing a job at an art museum, narrow eyes taking in some of the trickier aspects of security. It’s taking him a little longer than usual because there was no prior indication that this job was going to have pressure sensors and a heat alarm on top of regular video surveillance and standard guard patrols.

It’s not taking him longer because his mind keeps replaying a certain scene with a brunette named Barry. He’s not thinking about the way Barry’s body fit snugly against his, like a warm and willing puzzle piece. He’s not thinking about the inexperienced but eager way the kid reached for Len’s cock in the hot tub, or how it felt to rub up against that long, lean body. He’s not thinking about the way Barry’s bright blue eyes widened and the way his breath caught in his throat when Leonard wrapped a hand around his cock and started to pump. He’s not thinking about the sting of the warm water over the scratches on his back, about the way Barry kissed him and bit his shoulder as they jerked each other off. He’s not thinking about how hot it was, how good it felt.

He’s thinking about the security system. The tricky, unexpected security system.

Len’s burner phone rings. Rather than continue to ineffectually case the museum, he welcomes the distraction and pulls the phone out of his pocket. The number isn’t one he recognizes, but the people he tends to work with go through more phone numbers in a year than the average citizen does in a lifetime.

Len flips the phone open and presses it to his ear as he weaves through the foot traffic of the museum. “Hello,” he says flatly. “Who’s this?”

“Um... Barry? Barry Allen? We met at the Black Horse a couple of days ago? Hi?”

Every sentence out of the kid’s mouth ends on a question, and Len can clearly visualize him blushing.

“Barry,” Len replies, momentarily dumbfounded. “Hi.”

“You, ah. You gave me your number and I just thought... well, I don’t know how long you’re in town on business, but did you want to get a drink tonight? Or, um... dinner? A movie? That’s what people do, right? I’m not really good at this.”

“I think you’re very good at it,” Len says, surprised to find a hint of leering in his voice. Or maybe not surprised, because he’s still (not) thinking about the hot tub. “I’m not much of a theater guy, but I could do dinner.”

“Great!” The kid manages to sound relieved and excited simultaneously. It’s a strangely endearing combination. “Do you like Chinese? There’s an amazing Chinese place about two blocks from the bar–”

The rest of the conversation goes quickly, and Len soon finds himself staring at the phone in his hand, the pad of his thumb resting on the END button.

“Well, shit.” 

Leonard Snart knows a lot of things. He knows that Bartholomew – Barry – Allen’s mother was brutally murdered by Barry’s father when he was just a kid. He knows that the kid’s father is still incarcerated in Iron Heights for the crime, and that Barry visits him regularly. He knows that the kid was adopted by Joe West, of all people – an excellent detective and thorn in Len’s side for the last few years. He knows the kid still lives at home with both West and West’s biological daughter, Iris – the pretty dark-haired friend who’d been with him at the bar. He knows the kid has his license, but doesn’t own a car and relies on the public transportation system or rides from friends.

Len knows all of this because he’d done his research yesterday, in an attempt to get the kid off his mind. He’d already known that he couldn’t see the kid again because of the inherent danger of starting anything with someone who worked at the police station, even if that someone was only a lowly assistant forensic analyst. The risk of a second encounter far outweighed any gain that he could justify, even if he included the hot tub in the equation. Which he was still not thinking about.

He knows all of this already. So why, why, why did his mouth just tell Barry that not only would he see him tonight for dinner, but that he’d pick him up from Joe West’s fucking doorstep?

“Shit.”

***

Somewhere in a hidden room in S.T.A.R. Labs, a man who goes by the name Harrison Wells stands, staring at a newspaper from the future. He finds himself here at least once a day, if only for a few stolen moments, carefully monitoring to make sure the headline hasn’t changed, that the future – his future – is intact. And yet, he can’t help but be curious as to this latest development. He has instructed Gideon to keep tabs on Leonard Snart, on the off chance that something will develop between Barry and the criminal. That instruction has served him well, and he listens to their conversation as they make dinner plans – how unexpectedly mundane – for the night.

Harrison takes a moment to separate himself. Mentally, drawing the line between this body, being Harrison Wells, and this mind, being Eobard Thawne. He cannot normally afford to make this distinction, not even in his own mind, but on the days when he finds himself sparing a moment to mourn for a dead wife who he has never met, he finds it unequivocally necessary.

Eobard gives the screen a hard, piercing look. He watches Snart making a few phone calls, first to a fence, then to a bookie. Snart is apparently tracking the movements of a petty thief named Jay Talios. The name means nothing to Eobard.

In the future, the Flash and Captain Cold share a strange camaraderie, but there is no mistaking that they are enemies. They engage in witty, sometimes corny banter. They destroy city property with their battles. They are superhero and supervillain, though Captain Cold is _not_ the Flash’s nemesis. He is simply one of the many, many rogues who came crawling out of the works when the Flash attained his abilities. The honor of being the Flash’s nemesis falls strictly on Eobard’s shoulders, thank you very much. Flash, Reverse-Flash. Obvious, really.

Still, Eobard cannot help but watch and listen. Snart makes another phone call, this time on a pay phone outside of the Museum of Natural Arts.

“Central City Police Department, how may I direct your call?”

Snart’s voice is a pitch higher than he usually speaks, and his words come out in what seems to be a nervous rush. “I’d like to leave an anonymous tip for Detective West. He told me I could do that, I could call in. Is that okay?”

“Of course. Detective West is out at the moment, but I can direct you to our tip hotline and you can leave a message for him.”

“Okay, okay,” Snart says, sounding nothing like himself. “Thank you, ma’am.”

After a few rings, a different woman picks up the call, and Snart rattles off some information pertaining to the whereabouts of the unlucky Jay Talios – how he’d been spotted talking to a certain bookie earlier, how he likely fenced his ill-gotten goods for cash, how he’d blown his payload on his gambling habit. Shaking down the bookie would probably lead Detective West to whatever couch “Tally” was crashing on this week.

Clever really, Eobard muses as Snart hangs up the phone. It’s no guarantee, but it’s highly likely that West will want to follow up any tip that mentions him by name. If he’s running around the city chasing a petty thief, he won’t be home when Snart goes to pick up Barry for their little – Eobard’s mouth twists unhappily – date. It isn’t a permanent solution, not that Eobard believes this interest is anything but a passing fancy, but it certainly does the trick for tonight.

Seeing Snart’s smug-looking face on the monitor, Eobard is half-tempted to crash tonight’s dinner date himself. A streak of yellow lightning, a visit from the Reverse-Flash, and he could wipe that self-satisfied look off of Snart’s face in a second flat. It would be so very easy because there is no one quick enough to stop him.

He can’t, of course. Not only is his introduction as the Reverse-Flash to this younger version of Barry Allen something he plans on savoring, but killing Leonard Snart would very likely damage the future Eobard has been struggling to keep intact. The brief flicker of irritation he feels at this is soothed by the same thought, albeit a separate tangent.

Because there is no one - _no one_ \- quick enough to stop him right now. Eobard feels a tiny thrill shoot through him: knowing in this time and place, he will be faster than the Flash... it’s simply _divine_. Eobard knows that developing Barry’s speed will take time, because no one can truly understand the limitations of their abilities until they’ve tested them, trained them. He can’t help but picture Barry Allen chasing him, reaching for him, and failing. 

He can visualize it clearly in his mind. Barry won’t recognize him, of course. He won’t see the man in the yellow suit and call out “Eobard!” or even “Dr. Wells!” He will only know him by the name which Eobard will delight in revealing to him – Reverse-Flash – as the mystery of Nora Allen’s death is dangled in front of the younger man like a piece of fresh meat over piranha-infested waters. And there will be a bite, a sharp and deadly sting, and blood in these waters before Eobard is through. 

It will be another two to three years before events progress to that point. Still, the anticipation of seeing Barry’s face in those moments sends a shiver down Eobard’s spine each and every time.

Pulling the wool over the eyes of Harrison Wells’ colleagues is simple; it is a fine act, pretending to be this harmless man with whom he has nothing – _nothing_ – in common save that they are both scientists, both driven, both willing to make sacrifices for the things they want most. Eobard Thawne’s understanding of the human psyche, his ability to predict not only the rational actions of the human beings around him, but those _irrational_ actions as well, made him one of the finest chess players of the twenty-third century. It makes manipulating these people, these insignificant, unimportant _insects_ something he can accomplish with his eyes closed (or, his smile holds a sharp edge, hidden behind unnecessary, cumbersome, thick-framed glasses). He can spin circles around every other mind on this planet, and it is so difficult, some days, to remain connected to this reality in a way that has any meaning.

The people that surround him, that speak their slow, stupid words to him with their thick, stupid tongues – these people are dead to him, have been for centuries. It is impossible to try and convince himself that any of them matter, because they don’t. They are ghosts, ancient, musty relics of a barbaric era in history; their bones are dust and their flesh decay. 

There is only one thing that keeps Eobard sane these days, a single bright connection that grounds him to this place, to this time. One person who pushes him to move forward, urges him to set one foot in front of the other, and do what needs to be done. God, the irony is so thick, thick, thick on his tongue that he can chew it between his sharp, sharp teeth.

Barry Allen.

Barry Allen, whose life he has controlled from the shadows for thirteen years. Barry Allen, who is not yet the Flash, but who will be, one day soon. Barry Allen is the only person in this godforsaken time who is real, the only one who matters. Barry Allen, Eobard muses, repressing a laugh tinged with hysteria, is the center of his universe.

Eobard remembers the first time he ever laid eyes on Barry Allen. Not this version, but the one in the future. Barry had been older than him, distinguished, intellectual, well-spoken. But unlike Eobard, who had been awkward with people, still growing into himself, his own genius, Barry had been easy to get along with. He’d been a star speaker at a science convention on the moral and ethical obligations in regards to artificial intelligences. Eobard had been entranced, had sought Barry out after the event, desperate to introduce himself, stumbling over his own words in his eagerness.

Eobard remembers the hero worship he felt for that Barry Allen, for his brilliance, for his compassion. He remembers the hopelessness of falling for an older, married man, the harsh sting of that first, unrequited love. 

And then he discovered that Barry Allen was the Flash.

And everything changed.

Eobard glances at Snart’s face on the monitor again, then dismisses him as presently unimportant. Let him have Barry tonight, let him enjoy his mundane dinner and his meaningless conversation. 

Because Eobard is eager for the future, for what it will bring him. Barry’s face comes to mind, his expression full of wonder and awe at meeting the great and terrible Harrison Wells.

Harrison Wells, Eobard Thawne, the Reverse-Flash: three aspects of the same man, and he is always, always one step ahead. His mind begins to make connections, plans forming to manipulate those around him for what he truly desires, and he can see these events clearly, so very clearly. He sees a bitter and beautiful retelling of Eobard’s history in Barry’s future, their roles ironically and gloriously reversed.

His thoughts come full circle and a smile tugs his lips; he still cannot help but picture Barry Allen chasing _him_ , reaching for _him_ , and failing. 

***

Picking the kid up from Joe West’s doorstep goes off without a hitch. Leonard Snart is pleased that the good detective isn’t home, and that his plans for the evening are not shot down with a handgun, punctuated by bullet holes and flashing lights. Leonard thought he had a clear picture of the kid in his mind, but Barry is somehow even better than he remembers – the flushed skin, the heartfelt smile, the foot-in-mouth babbling. 

They get a table for two at the restaurant. It’s a hole in the wall, a place that never even registered on Len’s radar in all of the times he’s been in Central City in recent years. The florescent lighting casts a waxy look on everything in the room, from the creaky wooden floors to the cheap, red paper lanterns that are strung across aging off-white walls. The table they sit at is uneven, and every time Barry leans forward, elbows resting on the flat surface, the whole thing lurches from one side to the other.

“I know it looks like a total dump,” Barry confides quietly after the server has poured them each a glass of water in foggy, plastic cups, and taken their orders, “but I swear, you will find no better Chinese food in Central City. I know, I’ve tried _all_ of them.”

Len’s mouth quirks and he gives Barry’s body a cursory once-over that has the kid blushing his trademark lobster-red. “Really? Because I’ve seen you without your clothes on, and you don’t look like you eat fast food regularly. Or at all.”

“LEN!” Barry spits out the sip of water he’s just taken as he says the name loudly. His voice is raised high enough that the two other people in the room, the hostess and a homeless-looking man in an oversized winter coat, glance up at them before looking away. Barry flushes, then lowers his voice and hisses, “Len! You can’t just! Just! Talk about me being naked so – so casually!”

“All I said,” Len replies with an grin he doesn’t have to think about, “is that I’ve seen you without your clothes on. I didn’t make a big deal out of it or go into detail.” He pauses for effect. “I can, though.”

Barry looks deliciously embarrassed as he uses his napkin to clean up the water he spit out. “You are a dirty, dirty old man. You’re going to make me look like a total idiot and then I’ll never be able to come to this restaurant again because all of the people who work here will remember me and tell each other stories about ‘that-guy-who-turned-so-red-he-exploded-all-over-his-moo-goo-gai-pan.’”

Len chuckles. “I’d say that I’m sorry... but I’m not. I like it when you blush. I like that I can make you blush. I like you.” His mouth abruptly clicks shut; he didn’t mean to say that. 

That... doesn’t happen. Leonard Snart is famous for his control, of himself, of a situation, of any given plan. His mouth doesn’t say things without his permission. What. the. hell.

Oblivious to Len’s internal crisis, Barry continues to blush bright red. He smiles, a lopsided and dopey little thing, and replies, “I like you too. Which is weird, but I’m not going to stress about it. I’m glad you came out with me tonight.”

This is the second time Len’s mouth has said something unplanned. Actually, the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that not only was his earlier agreement to have dinner with Barry not planned, but he’d actively decided against it. When had he changed his mind? It hadn’t even registered because he’d been so busy setting up that loser Talios to keep Detective West’s full attention for the night.

“I know you said you were in town on business, so I wasn’t sure you’d be around,” Barry says. “How long are you in town for? Where do you live? When you say ‘business,’ what sort of business are we talking about? Do I need to worry about finding a horse head in my bed if I piss you off? Are you in town often? I don’t think I ever got your last name. Actually, I guess I should have asked earlier, but how old are you? Since I keep calling you a dirty old man, I should probably know that, too.”

Len comes back to the conversation near the end of the kid’s rambling speech. He opens his mouth, then closes it. He blinks.

Len isn’t sure what Barry sees in his expression because the kid laughs uncomfortably, rubbing his neck with one hand in a self-conscious gesture. Len recognizes it instantly, sees it for what it is: a kid too eager, too excited, tripping over himself because he wants to be liked as badly as he likes, trying so hard because he doesn’t yet realize that he doesn’t have to try, he’s fine as he is. Abruptly, Len stuffs his earlier line of thought into an empty box in the corner of his mind, firmly shutting the lid. He’ll panic about it later, he decides. But for now, he feels the compelling urge to wipe that chagrined look from Barry’s face.

“I’m thirty-four,” Len answers the only question he remembers picking out of Barry’s word-vomit. “I missed the rest of that, but if you start over again, I promise, this time I’ll keep up.”

***


	3. [3/7] Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len continues to plan the museum heist with the help of Lisa and Mick, however Len's budding relationship with Barry is proving a surprisingly difficult act to balance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/05/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).  
> 05/18/17: Minor revisions, deleted author's notes, added chapter summary.

***

Leonard Snart is a criminal. He is mostly a thief, sometimes a killer, and always a liar. Some of his lies are one-time fabrications, spun from the top of his head, but nonetheless convincing. Some of his lies are well-rehearsed; he doesn’t need to think about them, and they roll off his tongue with practiced ease. Point is, when it comes to lying, he’s really very good.

So when his sister asks him if he’s seen the dark-haired kid with the baby blues since that night at the bar, he quirks an eyebrow at her and lets his silence do the lying for him.

“That’s a shame, Lenny,” Lisa sighs, popping a piece of bubble gum noisily in her mouth. “I really liked him.”

“You didn’t say a word to him, Lisa,” Len points out, a hint of fond exasperation in his voice. “Nor did you hear a single word he said.”

They sit side by side in a nondescript car he’d rented earlier that day, parked across the street from the museum. Len jots down the descriptions of a few security guards and the times they arrive for their shifts on a pad of paper. One of them is late for the second time in two days. That could be useful or problematic, depending on how he decides to plan this job.

“Well, yeah,” Lisa says, still chewing her gum. The heels of her fashionable boots are propped comfortably up on the dash as she reclines casually in the passenger seat. “But I didn’t have to talk to him to know you liked him, brother dearest. And if you like him, than I like him.”

“Your standards are too low,” Len says in lieu of an actual reply.

“And you’re too damned picky,” Lisa snipes back. She waves a perfectly manicured hand in his direction. “I know you, Lenny, better than anyone else. And I know that if you like him... well, he’s gotta be something special.”

“Is there a point to this?” he asks, making a few more notes on his pad – the windows on the second floor look older than the ones on the first floor, it’s possible the locks used on those windows are older as well. Could be useful, though he doesn’t remember there being a noticeable difference when he cased the inside of the museum earlier in the week. The interior of the building will need to be gone over at least once more, but he thinks he’ll have Lisa do the walkthrough the second time, so as not to arouse suspicion.

“My point is that you should call him,” Lisa says.

“We’re thieves, Lisa,” Len points out reasonably. “It isn’t as though I can tell him who I am or what I do for a living.”

“So? We’re liars, too. And who’s to say you can’t tell him, at least some of it? You’re a wanted man. Bad boys are so very sexy. I bet’cha Blue-eyes thinks so too,” Lisa replies with a sultry little pout.

Leonard Snart fixes his sister with a steely, cold stare. “He’s an assistant forensic analyst who works for the CCPD. His foster-father is an excellent detective. His foster-sister is studying to be a reporter. You want me to go into detail about why it’s not going to happen, Lisa, or can you picture just how badly that could go wrong without my help?”

Lisa makes a face and blows another bubble. She pops it, then says, “But I like him, Lenny. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“What will it cost me to get you to drop this?” Len asks with a long-suffering sigh, the sort of sound doting older brothers and single fathers make when they realize they don’t know what game they’re playing, but somehow do know they’ve already lost.

Lisa grins, “A new assault riffle.”

Len glares. “I just bought you a new assault riffle last week.”

“Yeah, and?” His little sister is the picture of innocence as she twirls a long strand of hair around one finger, popping another bubble as she gives him an angelic smile.

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” Len says, but there's no heat in the words.

“Aw,” Lisa laughs. “I love you too, Lenny.”

Leonard Snart doesn’t bother to dignify that with a response. He starts the car, pulls away from the curb, and drives without speeding. Next to him, Lisa turns on the radio, squeals with delight, and begins to sing along, “Needle and the thread, gotta get you out of my head~”

Glancing over at his younger sister, he sees her smiling. There is sunshine on her brunette curls, and her expression is animated as she childishly bops to the music and sings. The corner of Len’s mouth quirks upward. He quickly smooths it back down.

“Needle and the thread, gonna wind up dead~”

***

“What’s your last name?” Barry asks him.

Not Snart, certainly. Not a name so distinctive, or one so blatantly connected to a criminal element. Not the name tied to his arrest record, nor the one framed in his mugshot. Instead, he gives Barry the name on his license: Leonard Coulter. It’s a name cops don’t instantly recognize. It’s simple, nondescript, and easy to remember.

It’s a lie.

***

“Didn’t you get laid the other night? Shouldn’t you be in a better mood or some shit?” Mick growls, picking up one of the papers from the table and crumpling it into a ball which he then chucks at Leonard’s head.

 _Mick Rory_ , Len frowns, _is a menace_. He tilts his head slightly to one side and the ball of paper sails passed him and lands on the floor with a gentle pop.

“My sex life is no concern of yours. However, if you would kindly stop destroying my visual aids, I won’t shoot you,” Len says, leaning back in his chair to snag the crumpled paper from the ground. He smoothes it back out on the table, then amends, “Probably.”

“That’s nowhere near destroyed,” Mick protests. “I’d have to burn it first.” A half-grin creeps across his face, and he makes a wiggly ‘gimme’ motion with his fingers.

The pair of them sit at the table in Len’s hotel kitchenette. Papers are spread out in front of them, detailing various aspects of the plan that Len has put together. It’s not a complete job yet – there’s still a few more angles to work through – but he’d wanted to go over his preliminary findings with Lisa, and somehow Mick had managed to wrangle an invitation out of his little sister.

Lisa’s rear end is all that’s visible at the moment. Her jeans are pulled taut as she leans forward into the open refrigerator, browsing his selection of beer. Len lets Mick get one good, long eyeful of his sister’s ass, then jabs his finger at one of the documents on the table. “This one,” he says. “This guard is our ticket in. Assuming, of course, that he holds to the pattern of being between five to thirty minutes late on a regular basis.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mick says. His eyes haven’t moved from Lisa’s ass, so Len pulls his handgun from the holster at his side. He points the gun at Mick’s temple and clicks the safety off. Mick freezes.

“That’s my sister,” Len says quietly.

“Your sister has a nice ass,” Mick replies without a shred of self-preservation.

“You really do like playing with fire,” Len muses.

“Put it down, Lenny,” Lisa says, sliding into the chair next to Mick. She puts three beers bottles on the table, then nudges two of them forward. The last she picks up, twisting the cap off with practiced ease. She takes a sip, and the fingers of her empty hand drum a steady beat on the tabletop. “Looking is fine, but no touching without permission, yeah?” She smiles charmingly at Mick.

“Yeah,” Mick says. He glances first at Len’s gun, then hopefully at the beer. 

Len snorts, slipping his gun back into the holster.

They both end up reaching for their drinks at the same time. Len opens his and takes a sip, settling comfortably back in his chair. He is silent as he listens to Mick start an argument with his sister over whether or not it’s acceptable to use fire as a plan B / escape-route.

Len’s phone buzzes and he slips it out of his pocket. His eyes scan the text quickly: _Free tonight?_ and he shoots off a short reply. His phone is back in his pocket before Lisa has finished taking a sip of her beer.

Mick gives him a knowing look and says, “What’s got you so fucking happy?”

“Shut up,” Len replies flatly.

Mick shrugs, then launches into a detailed descriptive about the process of making napalm to Lisa.

 _Mick Rory_ , Len thinks with a fond sort of exasperation, _is a menace_. He is skilled, but unpredictable. He is surprisingly perceptive, but completely loses focus at the thought of a lit match. In the end, that sort of single-minded obsession is what's going to one day get him killed.

***

“Where do you live?” Barry questions, curiosity making his eyes even brighter.

Leonard Snart has moved to a lot of places over the years, as he follows the jobs that seem most promising, chasing the danger and a paycheck. He’s moved from Central City to Starling City, from Gotham to Metropolis and back again. He stays for a few months, pulls the job, and runs before anyone is the wiser.

Most people have homes. They have houses with white picket fences, apartments with shitty managers, condominiums with nosy associations. Most people live in a single place. They don’t move constantly from safe house to hotel room. They don’t have to dump all of their worldly possessions into cheap, cookie cutter dressers, then empty them back into small, easily transportable suitcases and backpacks. They don’t have to constantly look back over their shoulder for police, then forward as they eye their next big score. 

He tells Barry he moved to Starling City a few years back.

It’s a lie.

***

Lisa is draped over his couch, kicking her feet against the armrest, when he unlocks the door to his hotel room. She’s giving him a wide-eyed look, and as she stares, a shit-eating grin spreads across her face. He shuts the door behind him and empties his pockets onto the top of the wooden dresser.

“Lenny~,” his little sister sing-songs, “Where~ have~ you~ been~?”

“Out,” he replies curtly, pulling his shirt over his head as he reaches for one of the recently deposited clean towels on the counter.

Lisa gives a low whistle. “I can see that,” she says. Her eyes take in the scratches that mar his back, and the deep, impassioned love marks on his neck and shoulders. “I was going to ask what you’ve been up to, seeing as I’ve been waiting for you to show up since last night, but clearly _someone’s_ been having a good time.”

Len rummages around in one of the dresser drawers, pulling out a clean pair of jeans and a fresh shirt. He places them at the foot of the bed. “Ten-minute shower,” he says. “You mind?”

“Not at all, brother dearest.” Lisa gives him a piercing look. “I thought you weren’t gonna’ be seeing Blue-eyes again, Lenny. Something about the CCPD, detective fathers from hell, and things ending badly, yeah?”

“I don’t have to tell him my life story,” Len tells her. “I just want to fuck him.” His voice is steady, cold, and controlled.

Lisa shrugs, “No judgements here, big bro. Just, y’know... be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” Len replies, gripping the soft towel in a tight fist. He walks into the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

***

“You said you’re in town on business?” Barry muses, his expression guileless.

Here, Len pauses. His usual response, the one that works for curious one-night stands, is antiques. But they’ve already made it to the second date, and Barry is smart enough to know that antiques is definitely not part of Len’s day job. He ponders the question for half a second, then says, “I own a small bar in Starling City. I was thinking about expanding.”

It’s a lie.

***

The plan isn’t quite foolproof, but Leonard Snart decides to up the time frame. Still, he’s not one for rushing jobs, and surprisingly, it’s Mick who calls him out on it.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” Mick says when Len picks up the phone.

“I need this job done and over with, Mick,” Len replies. “I need to get out of this city.”

***

Leonard Snart is a criminal. He is mostly a thief, sometimes a killer, and always a liar. It’s who he is, and if he’s honest about one thing, it’s that he makes no excuses for his lifestyle. He can only spare a single moment of regret that things aren’t different, because Barry Allen is nothing like anyone Len has ever met before.

Barry is honest. His heart has a place of honor on his sleeve, and he’s so damned earnest. He’s genuinely interested in who Leonard Snart is as a person, and there isn’t a single ounce of guile to be found in those blue eyes. He listens when Len speaks, asks questions that show he’s not just offering lip service, and his knee keeps brushing against Len’s underneath their table; every time contact is made, he smiles like they’re sharing a secret.

Len steals the check from under Barry’s nose and pays for the food before the younger man can protest. He glances casually over at the kid as they make their way out the restaurant’s front door. Barry is nibbling his lower lip with a thoughtful expression on his face.

That expression reminds Len of their first night together. It makes his mouth dry, and the warmth that settles in his stomach has nothing to do with the meal they just ate. It’s a terrible idea, because things have already gone too far for his liking. This has been a fun diversion, but he can’t let it continue.

“Hot tub?” Barry asks, flushing that lovely, embarrassed shade of red. His eyes are clear and dark with desire. 

Len’s mouth replies, forming the word without his permission. “ _Yes._ ”

It’s the first honest thing he’s said all night.

***


	4. [4/7] Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man known as Harrison Wells discovers a piece of good news that helps to lift his foul mood. Len may have made a mistake with Mick, and struggles to avoid making a different mistake with Barry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/05/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).  
> 05/18/17: Minor revisions, added chapter summary.

***

The man known as Harrison Wells is not happy. He allows no trace of this frustration, this displeasure, to show on his face as he strides through the long, curved corridors of S.T.A.R. Labs. In fact, he makes it a point to nod genially to the few physicists on his team whom he passes in the hallways on his way to his office, a bag of Big Belly Burger takeout clenched in one hand.

Perhaps what frustrates him most, he seethes inwardly, is that the month of December had such a promising start. Every day is another step towards the completion of the particle accelerator and its inevitable explosion. As the year of 2011 comes to a close, each day is an internal countdown on a clock no one else even knows is ticking. In celebration of the conclusion of yet another year, another tally mark in the dirt of this prison without walls, Harrison has hired Hartley Rathaway, a brilliant young man who may or may not one day become the Pied Piper.

It has been terribly amusing to find that Hartley’s genius is eclipsed only by his social ineptitude. Harrison is torn. On one hand, he himself is intimately familiar with the behavioral problems and social conducts that seem to elude the younger man's understanding, and if he so chooses, it would be quite simple to assist Hartley in becoming a more stable, adaptable, and affable individual. One the other hand, by continuing to encourage the antisocial, and in most cases confrontational, behavior, Harrison can very easily cement his position as a beloved mentor to Hartley, securing the younger man’s loyalty for as long as it is convenient to do so.

By Harrison’s estimation, with the addition of Hartley to this team of brilliant minds, the completion of the particle accelerator is likely only a year or two away. The timing fits perfectly into the five-year plan that has been pitched to Harrison’s looming investors. Granted, it isn’t as though there was ever any doubt the machine would be finished in the timeframe he’d given to those interested parties. He is intimately acquainted with all aspects of the science behind the accelerator, after all. Except–

–he has to have patience. He has to, to wait, wait, wait–

The timing must be _exact_. Every piece on this board must be properly positioned, every variable carefully accounted, clinically cataloged. To recreate the experiment that created the Flash – the failing accelerator, the dark and stormy night, and Barry Allen, in the perfect time and place for lightning to strike–

The man known as Harrison Wells _must_ be patient. Ever patient, ever faithful that in keeping events closely mirroring those of his original timeline, the future will remain intact. He must repeat this mantra daily. _One foot ahead of the other_ , he thinks, and his mind whispers, _Barry Allen, Barry Allen, Barry Allen_ , like a lover’s caress, intimately familiar with the harsh angles of this stolen body.

Still, he has his little amusements. His pet project, Grodd, for example. Having been released into the sewers, perhaps a year ago at this point, the gorilla seems to have adjusted admirably. Harrison visits him on occasion, brings him little gifts, sparing a stolen hour here and there to shower him with affection. And he does feel genuine affection for the creature, genuine remorse that it had been necessary to allow General Eiling access to his labs, to his research, to an innocent animal who has become so much more, who will _be_ so much more than anyone can possibly suspect.

There is also the diversion of a particular romance blooming at S.T.A.R. Labs. Under most circumstances, office romance is of less interest to him than most things in this century, but that it has happened between the perpetually chilly Dr. Caitlin Snow and the boyishly charming Ronnie Raymond, well. That is most certainly of interested to him, not because of who these two bright, young minds are, but because of who they may yet one day become. Harrison cannot help but wonder if Dr. Snow will evolve into the villainous Killer Frost. He cannot help but imagine the events that may one day bring together Ronnie Raymond with Martin Stein, giving life to the powerhouse known as Firestorm. He cannot help but delight in the possibility _his_ particle accelerator may be responsible for either of these twists of fate.

So yes, the budding romance between the potential superhero and supervillain, between fire and ice, does indeed interest him.

However, it is the budding romance between the _other_ superhero and supervillain, between hot and cold, that is currently causing him no small amount of irritation.

Leonard Snart – the top of the paper bag he has clutched in his hand crinkles in protest as Harrison tries, and fails, to loosen his grip – Leonard Snart is a _pest_.

The only reason Harrison has not removed him entirely from the equation is the firm and true belief that once Barry learns of Snart’s criminal tries – his thieving, and more specifically, his moral ambiguity when it comes to killing – there won’t be a need for outside interference. If there is one thing Harrison knows, it is that the time stream is a delicate and gossamer creature. The less direct action spent interfering in the way events play out, the higher the likelihood of a more favorable outcome. And Barry? Barry is the picture of justice, of fairness, of a world that has no room for the shades of gray that fit between the stark lines of black and white. Upon learning Snart is a criminal, Barry should cut all ties to the man without a second thought.

Perhaps – Harrison tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowing as his mind zips through nearly one hundred different scenarios and possible outcomes in the span of about two minutes – perhaps not. Barry also has the nauseating ability to try and find the good in just about anyone. If Snart plays his cards properly, it’s possible that a relationship could continue to exist between them in the short term. However, knowing Snart’s character as he does, Harrison is almost 99% positive that it would take an unprecedented and near impossible series of events for Snart to give up his life of crime completely.

And should Barry discover that he has been lied to after giving the criminal a second chance, that, as they say, would be that.

Presently, Snart has been lying to Barry, rather well, for the last two weeks. The pair has spent every other night together, either at Snart’s hotel or out on the town “dating.” Their romance has spanned a series of common Chinese resultants and a handful of bars. It is marginally upsetting how much Barry seems to be honestly enjoying himself around the criminal. It’s become a personal affront to Harrison because he knows exactly how much ill-gotten money Snart has stashed away, and yet the lowlife still persists in being a pathetically cheap date.

(There is a tiny corner of Eobard’s mind that acknowledges if he were to ever take Barry out for a night on the town, there will be a five star restaurant, a vintage bottle of wine, and in a penthouse suite, a bed strewn with rose petals; Barry Allen is worth that much at least. There is something to be said about Barry’s naked body reclining on silken sheets, cheeks flushed with wine and desire, and that _look_ in his eyes, so helplessly vulnerable, a gentle sea of confusion as Eobard reaches out to wrap his fingers around that long, lean neck and _squeeze_.)

The man known as Harrison Wells momentarily falters in his stride, and he wills away the beginning of an erection that has taken him almost completely by surprise.

Grateful that the hallway is completely empty, Harrison gives himself a brief shake, then continues walking. His mind regains his previous train of thought quickly – events have been progressing for Snart and Barry at an alarming rate, but by definition this should also mean that things should be ending shortly as well, one way or another. Either Barry will piece together that he’s been spending his nights with a wanted man, or Snart will finish the heist that has him in town and move on before the police catch wind of his activities.

This is what Harrison has been telling himself for the last two weeks. He finds it quite irritating that his mind persists in reminding him of the situation at practically every turn. How is it he has waited years for Barry to grow from a child to a man, years for events to progress properly as he patiently finds his own path home. More than a decade, and not a crack in his façade. Two weeks? He doesn’t even acknowledge two weeks as a single drop in the pool of his infinite patience.

And yet.

He is irritated. He is aggravated. He is most _displeased_.

Harrison finds himself resisting the irrational urge to grit his teeth when Gideon provides fresh video footage of the pair. To see Barry Allen, his cheeks and nose bright red from the chilly wind, and Snart wrapping an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close to ward off the cold as they walk together along the side of the street. There is no logical reason for white flash of anger that surges through Harrison.

And yet.

Harrison arrives at his office and slips comfortably into the chair behind his desk. He empties the contents of the bag onto the surface of his desk, spreading out his lunch, though he is mindful to tuck all paperwork safely in one of the drawers first. He unwraps the Big Belly Burger and takes a bite, not needing to fake his honest enjoyment as he savors the taste.

“Dr. Wells?” comes the timid voice from the doorway. One of his interns, a pretty little dark-haired thing – she also makes excellent coffee, he recalls. For the life of him, he cannot remember her name. He places the burger onto the wrapper and waves her into his office.

“Sorry to interrupt your lunch, Dr. Wells. I just wanted to bring you your newspaper,” she continues, extending the thin bundle of folded paper as she steps forward.

“My thanks,” he says, wiping his fingers on a napkin before accepting the paper.

“I didn’t think anyone read the paper anymore,” the girl says without prompting. She laughs lightly, then shakes her head, “I mean, everyone I know gets their news from the internet or twitter these days.”

Harrison offers her a tiny smile. “I suppose,” he says, relishing in the taste of the words like he would a bite of his burger, “that I’m just old fashioned. Thank you again.”

“Of course, Dr. Wells,” she replies. “Enjoy your lunch!”

She ducks out of the room without another word.

Shaking his head, Harrison opens the newspaper. He spreads the paper out on his desk, causally flipping through the articles as he skims for anything of interest. He reaches out with his other hand and picks up his burger again, raising it to his mouth to take a second bite.

He pauses before the burger reaches his mouth, and a slow, sharp smiles curves his lips as he rereads the title of one article in particular. “Fire at the Museum of Natural Arts!” the top of the paper reads. In smaller text beneath that, “Robbery Gone Wrong; One in Custody, Badly Burned!”

It’s going to be a wonderful Christmas, the man known as Harrison Wells thinks to himself, still smiling. He sinks his teeth deep into his burger, and rolls the sweet taste of blood across his tongue.

***

Leonard Snart sits quietly in the corner of the hospital room. On the bed, Mick Rory lays there, still. Half of his body is covered in thick, open burns. The burns appear to ooze clear liquid, but Len knows that’s not the case. The clear, oily substance on Mick’s raw skin is an aftereffect of whatever burn cream the doctors have used to cover him. It’s just... the burns are so terrible that it’s hard to see beyond them, hard to acknowledge the treatments that have already happened.

He knows he shouldn’t be here. There is a police officer posted right outside the door, and it’s an unnecessary risk to have snuck in, but Len needed to see the evidence of this job gone wrong for himself.

Mick looks more dead than alive, the stuttered rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he hasn’t passed away in his sleep. Everywhere Len looks, there is raw meat. On Mick’s neck, his chest, his arm, it’s all fresh hamburger, and Len can _smell_ it. The ever-present sterile stink of the hospital has been replaced with the lingering scent of barbecue.

Leonard Snart knows that the job was rushed. He know that part of this fault lies on his own shoulders. But he also knows Mick – Mick is the one who chose to light the fire to cover his own escape. Mick is the one who didn’t take into account the age of the walls, the dried wood hidden beneath the drywall, the fire safety protocols that were years out of date.

Mick is the one who burned in the flames. Mick is the one who would have died screaming, if that security guard hadn’t played the hero and pulled him out of the flames.

Mick Rory is a menace. But at least he’s alive.

Mick’s eyes open slowly as he comes to a groggy, hazy awareness; the pain-killers have done their job. Despite that, he focuses with uncanny accuracy on where Len sits, half-hidden in the shadows.

Leonard Snart speaks softly so as not to alert the guard outside the door. He speaks gently, because Mick almost died. He speaks with finality, because that’s who he is. “We’re finished, Mick.”

The words hang in the air, cold and empty, and Mick closes his eyes and says nothing in reply. Len slides out of the chair, and presses a single, easily concealed lock pick into Mick’s uninjured hand. Mick’s fingers close around the metal, forming a tight, unbending fist, and Len slips quietly out the window.

***

There are so many reasons Leonard Snart should end things between him and Barry tonight. With the way this job has played out, and the very real heat that will be dogging his every step out of this city, the smart thing to do would be to cut his loses, grab his sister, and run, run, run.

Things can’t ever work between them. Len knows this. He has driven himself crazy thinking and rethinking all the angles – the kid could discover his occupation at any time, which will put both of them into a very tricky situation. Choices will have to be made, lines will have to be drawn, and a relationship based on so many lies and omissions? Doesn’t stand a chance.

Barry is wicked clever – Len has seen it in the kid’s observations over dinner time and time again – and it’s clear what makes him such an excellent forensic analyst. He has a quick mind and the deductive reasoning to back it up, and even if Len’s mug shot doesn’t end up on Barry’s desk some day, it’s entirely possible that Barry may end up realizing something is amiss anyway. It’s the little things that Len has to be careful of – the faint scent of gunshot residue on his hands, he sniffs them just to be sure he got it all – the smell of fire on his clothes, he bundles them into a plastic bag and stuffs them down to the very bottom of his backpack. He takes a shower, soaps himself to a lather, and drowns the stink of this failed job in cheap hotel shampoo.

Leonard Snart is used to working all the angles, thinking three pages ahead and sometimes already on the sequel. But sometimes, he knows that things get missed. Sometimes, for every hundred variables he takes into account, there’s the one he never sees coming –

Like Mick. Stupid fucking Mick, screaming, burning, dying.

Even if Barry doesn’t suspect anything, his foster father, Joe West, is one of the best detectives that Snart has ever had the misfortune of meeting. West is as protective of Barry as he is of his own biological daughter, and he knows Len’s face. Avoiding West’s lurking is tricky at best, incriminating at worst.

And Iris, Barry’s foster-sister, the budding reporter. Len has made the news a couple of times, when he was younger and still learning how to be discreet. Iris has seen his face, that night that she pointed him out to Barry. If Len is lucky, she was tipsy enough and the bar was dark enough that she might not remember it very well.

Len is never that lucky.

There are so many reasons this – Barry, Barry’s lobster-red blush, Barry’s amazing smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes – this a terrible fucking idea.

This is a terrible idea, and what’s more, Leonard Snart is smart enough to know it.

He dials Barry’s number anyway and when the kid picks up with a confused, “Hello?” he says, “Hey, kid. I got myself a new phone,” and rattles off the number of his replacement burner. “I have a family emergency back in Starling. I’m leaving town tonight.”

“Oh.” Barry’s voice is a strange mix of disappointment, sadness, and resignation.

“Can I kiss you goodbye?” Len asks.

“What?” Barry’s voice goes to startled and hopeful in the span of less than a second.

“Come outside,” Len says.

There is a moment of silence, followed by a hollow-sounding shuffle down a flight of stairs. Joe West’s front door opens with a hesitant creak, and Barry peeks his head out.

Len stands on the front porch in full view of anyone who might care to see. The smile that spreads slowly and surely across Barry’s face is worth it.

This is a terrible fucking idea, but Leonard Snart is an idiot – and what’s worse, he’s smart enough to know it.

***

Lisa is asleep in the front seat of the car, curled into herself to keep warm. At a red light, Len leans over and drapes his parka over her shivering body.

 _“Look,”_ Barry says in his head, nibbling his lip, fidgeting in the cold, _“I know long distance probably isn’t something you’re interested in doing. It’s not really something I’m interested in, either.”_

The light turns green and Len continues to drive. They passed the outskirts of Central City ten miles back, and there’s no reason to speed. No one is chasing them.

_“But... I like you, Len. These past couple of weeks with you have made me happy. Happier than I’ve felt in a long time. So, even if long distance isn’t something that either of us is interested in, maybe I can call you sometime, and we can see where it goes from there?”_

Lisa shifts restlessly, unable to stay still even in her sleep. Her nose wrinkles, making her look so very young.

_“No promises, kid. But, yeah, you can call me sometime. I might do the same.”_

***


	5. [5/7] Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes two weeks; that's the first time that Barry calls Len in this long distance relationship, though it's certainly not the last. It takes six months; that's the first time Len calls Barry, and it's a drunk dial, to boot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/05/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).  
> 05/18/17: Minor revisions, deleted author's notes, added chapter summary.

***

The first time Barry Allen calls Leonard Snart on the phone, Len is slumped forward on a stool in his hotel kitchenette. Lisa is beside him, her lips pursed tightly as she sloppily struggles to stitch the stab wound on his shoulder shut. There is blood crusted beneath her nails; it stains her fingers and palms, and it tie-dyes the front of her designer top in an intricate pattern. Little red drips stain the white, tiled floor each time she stitches the thread through his skin with a tug of her needle, tightening it with the scarlet tips of her tweezers.

Len is a rock. He takes small, neat sips from a bottle of whiskey as his sister works, but otherwise, he does not move.

It has been nearly two weeks since the job-that-will-not-be-mentioned in Central City. He and his sister are constantly moving, trading out one rented car for another, one false name for the next. They have slept in a different hotel or motel every night.

The weather is bitterly cold, but the icy winds and the near sub-zero temperatures have never phased Len; _thank you, Lewis,_ he thinks listlessly. _Of all the gifts to give your children, thanks for that_. But where Len thrives despite the treatment his father put him through in his youth – abuse, a corner of his mind corrects, being locked in a freezer for hours at a time is abuse – Lisa suffers for it. She is painfully susceptible to the cold, Len knows, and she hates it. It’s half the reason she’s always moving, constantly generating her own heat, unwilling to sit still. Her fingers rhythmically tap on a tabletop, or her foot will twitch, heel clicking a staccato beat against the floor. Sometimes it drives him to distraction, but he will never ask her to stop.

Tonight, he thinks, taking another sip of whiskey, savoring the burn as it hits the back of his throat, is not a good night. After Lisa finishes with the wound, they need to skip this town as quickly as possible. Drunken bar fights with petty crooks in small-time towns - those usually catch the attention of the local authorities, Len knows, even if it’s only for a brief follow up. He and Lisa are running on borrowed time; they need to move, soon. 

Len’s mind is mentally making the necessary preparations – the handful of items that have made it into the dresser will be packed swiftly. A few rations can be taken from the kitchen, but the case of beer needs to be left behind, not in the refrigerator, far too suspicious, but thrown into the nearest dumpster before they blow town. His blood will need to be cleaned from the room, sterilized with ammonia. The car is low on gas, and Lisa will have to do the pumping while he sits with a hat tugged low over his eyes in the passenger’s seat; the patrons of the bar will remember what he looks like, but for the most part, Lisa has been smart enough to stay out of view–

His burner phone vibrates.

He is careful not to jostle his sister’s hands as he slips the phone from his pocket. He glances at the number on the screen and his heart gives an involuntary lurch. The pad of his thumb hits the “OK” button before he can debate on whether or not answering right now is the best course of action.

“Hey, kid,” Len says.

“Len,” comes the warm reply. Len can picture the small, pleased smile that turns the corners of Barry’s mouth. “Hi.”

Len opens his mouth to say something, but all that comes out is a short “Ow,” as Lisa jabs him with the needle.

“Ow?”

“Sorry,” Len says, giving his smirking little sister a dark look. “I got stitches today. I think I just pulled one.”

“Oh. Oh! Are you okay?” The instant, honest concern in Barry’s voice has Len suppressing a smile. “What happened?”

“I’m – ow – fine.” He gives Lisa another look as she pokes him again, certain she’s doing it on purpose. “Just a little accident at work with a broken bottle, nothing to be concerned over.”

“I guess I never thought of owning a bar as being particularly hazardous to your health,” Barry muses. “Anyway, I know it’s late, and I’m sorry to bother you. It’s kind of corny, I guess, but I just wanted to be the first one, you know?”

“Kid,” Len says, thoroughly confused, “What are you talking about?”

“It’s midnight,” Barry replies, “and I just – well, I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas. So. Merry Christmas, Len!”

“Oh.” Len blinks, glancing at his phone and realizing that yes, it's officially December 25th. There is a soft, funny little warmth that tugs at his gut. “Merry Christmas, Barry.”

“I won’t keep you. I hope your, um, stitches feel better soon?” Barry continues, and Len can still hear him smiling. “Goodnight, Len.”

“Goodnight,” Len echoes, and the phone clicks off.

“How’s Blue-eyes doing?” Lisa asks knowingly as she finishes tying the uneven stitches on his shoulder with steady hands. She snags the bottle of whiskey from the table and splashes a generous amount over the wound in an attempt to clean it. Len winces.

Tilting his head slightly to the side, Leonard Snart fixes his little sister with a piercing stare. Skin? No. Clothes? Not really. Lisa didn’t care about either of those things quite as much, but she was a vain creature when it came to her curls. “Merry Christmas, Lisa. You have blood in your hair,” he says, then allows himself a tiny smirk of satisfaction as she shrieks and dashes for the bathroom.

***

They talk periodically after that. Barry has the strangest luck with timing. Whenever Len is having a particularly bad day, usually when he’s sporting an injury he probably could have avoided, his burner phone buzzes. Whenever the rare and restless weight of stress and anger presses down on him, Barry calls. It’s almost uncanny.

On a separate note, it’s also slightly annoying because whenever Lisa is around, she tends to give him these aggravatingly smug little smirks each time he picks up his phone.

Despite not being one for phone conversations, Len finds he enjoys Barry’s calls, which last anywhere from a few stolen minutes – Len is in the middle of casing a fresh job at a bank – to leisurely hours, shared late in the night while Lisa snores softly across the room. They talk about anything, about everything. Even the mundane things, and Len finds he enjoys listening to Barry talk about his job at the precinct, not because it offers him any insight into the place – Barry is very careful to never discuss any open cases or ongoing investigations with him – but because he likes knowing how Barry’s day goes.

He chuckles as Barry shares moments of embarrassment, of the wrong thing said in front of the wrong person and of how often he seems to eat his own foot when Captain Singh is involved. He finds himself agreeing with Joe West, of all people, as Barry relates the excellent advice the older detective gives him, the nuggets of wisdom pressed into Barry’s hands by a man who loves him like a father. He listens to the affection Barry has for his foster-sister, Iris, and talks about the love he has for his own sister, no matter how much she aggravates him.

Sometimes Len wonders if Barry loves Iris. He remembers the look in the kid’s eyes that first night in the bar. He remembers reading into the kid’s open face, that he cared for the girl as more than just a friend. But in the end, it doesn’t matter. Barry is in Central City, and Len? Len has moved yet again after another successful heist.

Sometimes they talk about dumb shit, Barry posing silly questions, and giving equally silly answers. Sometimes Len even plays along, because he likes hearing the kid laugh. Honest, so very honest, and it’s a sound that Len tucks away and treasures. He keeps it safe, hidden next to his sister’s impish grin and the way her hair sticks up and to the side when she rolls out of bed in the mornings.

There is one night, one dark and cold and miserable night in March, when he can hear the unshed tears in Barry’s voice when he calls. Len asks him what’s wrong, and Barry replies quietly. His voice trembles as he talks about the day his mother was murdered. 

Len listens, but says nothing as Barry describes the event to him. He tells himself that this is out of respect, and not because his throat is tight and he doesn’t trust his own voice.

“No one believes me,” Barry says. “I was just a kid, but I know what I saw. A man in the lightning murdered my mother, and no one believes me because they said I couldn’t possibly be there, not when I was twenty blocks away. It all happened in an instant, but I’ve spent a lifetime struggling to understand it.”

“My father,” Barry sighs. “My father was arrested for killing my mother. He’s sitting in Iron Heights right now, thirteen years later, for a crime he didn’t commit. That’s why I got involved in forensic science, you know? I thought, if I could just find the right evidence, I could prove my father’s innocence. But whatever happened that night – it’s impossible. It’s an impossible crime... so these days, I spend all my free time chasing the impossible.”

“You’re a good kid,” Leonard says finally, and Barry lets out a shaky little laugh. Maybe Len’s imagining it, but he thinks the kid’s voice no longer sounds quite as sad.

There is another night, when the weather is just starting to warm in April and the skies are open and pouring down, that Len tells Barry about his childhood. He tells Barry that his father is also in prison. He tells Barry that the man deserves every minute of it, because even if Len can ignore the way his dad treated him, he won’t ever forgive the bastard for doing the same to Lisa when Len wasn’t fast enough to get in his way.

He tells Barry that his dad liked to use a belt. He doesn’t say that’s where the scars on his back come from, the one’s Barry has never asked about. He tells Barry that sometimes his father would lock him and his sister in the big, walk-in freezer in their basement for hours at a time. In a voice that doesn’t waver, he tells Barry, as if it isn’t some horrible secret, that his father doesn’t like him very much.

And Barry – sweet, innocent, blushing Barry – hisses, “Fuck him.” 

The instant and vehement reply startles an unexpected laugh out of Len. Barry never curses.

“I like it when you say ‘fuck,’” Len says. He’s surprised to find his mouth is smiling. He’s surprised that he feels... lighter.

“Fuck him,” Barry says again, and his voice goes strange and soft. “I don’t – I can’t claim to know what it’s like, having a father like that. But he was wrong. He – if he couldn’t see you for who you are – fuck him. Because you’re amazing, Len. And I – I like you, a lot.”

“Thanks, kid.” Len’s voice is a little rough on the reply, but Barry doesn’t mention it.

***

The first time Leonard Snart calls Barry Allen on the phone, nearly six months have passed since the- job-that-will-not-be-mentioned in Central City

Leonard Snart has been drinking heavily. He usually doesn’t let himself get to this point, because he hates the loss of control it brings. He’ll have a couple of beers, or a shot of hard liquor, but to be this? This falling over his own two feet, stupid drunk?

Lisa drives him to their motel without question. She helps to steady him, holding his arm in place over her slim shoulders as she struggles with the key card to their room. “It’s not your fault, Lenny,” she tells him, fumbling with the door handle. She tells him that every year, he thinks sluggishly. It’s a lie.

“C’mon, big bro,” she says, and together they manage to navigate the long, arduous corridor from the front door to the motel bed. There is some shuffling of feet and a few close calls, but with his sister’s help, Len doesn’t fall. It’s a small victory.

The room spins. Len stumbles forward and flops onto the bed without fanfare. He feels the side of the bed dip under Lisa’s weight as she sits next to him. Her hand stokes his hair gently, and he feels her lips ghost against his skin as she presses a kiss to his temple. “It’s not your fault,” Lisa says again.

“‘m your big bro,” he mumbles by way of reply. His eyes remain closed.

“The very best big bro,” she says. She sighs, a soft huff of air that carries something heavy. She slides off the bed and pulls the shoes from his feet, dropping them without ceremony to the floor. Each one lands with a thud. She moves away from the bed and he can hear the fan in the bathroom whir to life as she flips the light switch on. He hears the sink running for a few seconds, and the telltale rattle of pills in a bottle.

After a moment, he hears the soft clink of items being deposited on the nightstand. A glass of water and a couple of aspirin, by his estimation.

“I’ve got a cutie waiting back at the bar for me, Lenny.” Lisa pressed another kiss to his forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning. Sweet dreams, brother dearest.” He feels the warm weight of a blanket settle over him, and a moment later, the door to their motel room opens and closes with a quiet click.

Leonard Snart doesn’t know how much time has passed. He feels lost, and there is a heavy, crushing weight that settles in his stomach and refuses to go away. There is a reason he drinks on this day, he knows. He can’t remember what it is, but it’s important. 

For some reason, his phone is in his hand. He doesn’t know how it got there, but he can hear Barry’s voice on the other end of the line. Barry is saying, “Len? Len, it’s two in the morning. Len, are you there?”

“Baer,” Len slurs.

“Len.” Barry sounds confused. Len can clearly picture the twisted, little frown on his cute, full lips. The kid shouldn’t frown; his mouth is made for those perfect, honest smiles. “Len, are you drunk?”

“Yu-p.” He puts special emphasis on the ‘p.’ That particular consonant is far more difficult when he’s drunk, he finds.

“Okay,” Barry says slowly. There is silence, and Len listens to the soothing inhale and exhale of Barry’s breath. “Are you... okay?” 

“‘m fine,” Len says.

“Okay,” Barry says again. “I’m – um. If you’re sure there’s nothing wrong? I’m going to hang up now.”

“I miss you,” Len mumbles into the phone.

There is a pause, then, “I miss you, too. G’night, Len.”

“I miss you,” Len repeats helplessly to the dial tone.

In the morning, when Lisa comes back to the hotel room with a box of donuts and two cups of coffee, Len is still passed out on his bed. His head is tilted back in an open-mouthed snore, and his phone is clutched in his hand like a lifeline. She sets breakfast on the dresser, then moves to gently pry the device from his fingers. Curiously, she checks the call log; Blue-eyes’ number is easily recognizable.

She smiles, a little sadly, then puts the phone on the nightstand next to the untouched water and aspirin.

***


	6. [6/7] Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later, Len and Barry may have gotten as far together as they can go. Something has to give... and then, something does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/05/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).  
> 05/18/17: Minor revisions, deleted author's notes, added chapter summary.
> 
> The events of the Arrow (season 2, episodes 8-9), as well as those from the Flash (season 1, episode 1), occur basically the same as in cannon, pre-particle accelerator, as they do in this story. If you haven't seen these episodes, you might get a little confused by this chapter.

***

“ _But fate? Fate’s tricky,_ ” Eobard bites out, standing next to Barry’s bedside in the year 2014.

 _Fate_ , Leonard thinks angrily by Barry’s bedside in the year 2013. _Fate is a_ bitch.

***

There are stolen moments that punctuate the end of 2012 and lead into 2013. There are moments when Leonard Snart finds himself a few miles from Central City, dashing like a madman as he follows the life, the job, the money. In these moments, he finds his phone in his hand, pressed to his ear and ringing before he is even aware he dialed. Sometimes the kid answers, his voice always warm, always eager. Sometimes the kid doesn’t answer, and a few minutes later, Len’s phone buzzes with a short text, saying some variant of the same thing: “Hey, Len. You in town?”

There are stolen nights that punctuate the end of 2012 and lead into 2013. Whenever he turns the wheel of his rental car toward Central City, Lisa will smile and shake her head, makes some excuse, and disappear to a nearby bar. These are the nights that Leonard Snart finds Barry curled up next to him on queen-sized beds and cotton sheets, illuminated by lamps on the nightstands of cheap hotel rooms. Len finds himself wondering – is this enough?

He gives Barry a few hours on the phone each week. He listens over the line, wanting to hear the smile in the kid’s voice, wanting to know about his day. But when Len speaks in return, he lies, lies, lies. He lies because to tell Barry the truth would mean the end of this thing between them. He lies because he doesn’t want this to end, but he can’t help but wonder, is this enough?

Maybe once a month, Len spends a night in Central City. He marks the kid’s body with his hands, with his mouth. He leaves a trail of blue and purple bruises down the side of Barry’s neck and chest, and he relishes the way the kid marks him in return. Len finds himself looking in the bathroom mirror, watching those bruises fade, a backwards way to keep track of the time they spend apart. And he wonders, fingers pressed to the marks made by Barry’s mouth, is this enough?

He can’t promise safety, or stability, or honesty. He can’t even guarantee when he might be in town next. He can’t give Barry a future.

But some nights, he can hold Barry close. He can bury himself in Barry’s body. He can lose himself in the warmth and the light and the laughter. He can pretend it won’t be over in the morning.

But still, he wonders... is this enough?

***

When Barry calls him, late in the day one rainy Wednesday in December, Len answers the phone without a thought. “Hey, kid,” he says, snagging a beer from his motel mini-fridge. He opens the bottle, flicking the cap with uncanny accuracy into the open trashcan.

“Len,” Barry says, smiling, always smiling. “I know it’s kind of short notice, but I just wanted to tell you, I’m actually going to be in Starling City today. Probably for the next couple of days.”

Len spits out the sip of the beer he’s just taken and replies with a flat: “What.” It isn’t even a question.

Barry continues happily, as if he isn’t trying to give Len a heart attack, “You know how I’m always looking into those impossible cases? I wrote a program that scans the police radio for certain key words – you know, the strange stuff? – and there’s a break-in that happened at one of Oliver Queen’s warehouses yesterday and it’s. Well, it’s weird.”

Leonard Snart’s mind races. He and Lisa are currently holed up at a motel about twenty miles outside Starling City, which is lucky, because yesterday he’d told Barry that he’d just returned “home” from a business trip to Metropolis–

“So I – well, I called out of work and told my captain that I have food poisoning, and Joe’s probably going to kill me if he finds out – but I’m on the train. Right now, actually. And while the investigation will probably take up all day, I was wondering if maybe I could. Um. See you? Tonight?”

“Lisa’s in my guest room,” Len lies without missing a beat. “Hotel okay?”

Barry laughs, and Len has to wonder because it – it doesn’t sounds quite right.

“Yeah,” Barry replies. “That’s – um. A hotel is fine.”

***

It’s a rainy, miserable night. Len texts Barry the address of the hotel he’s found that’s almost dead center in the middle of Starling City; not knowing where Barry’s investigation may take him, it’s the only assistance that Len can think to offer. When the knock comes on the door, he opens it swiftly.

Barry looks like a drowned puppy. His hair drips down over his forehead, and his wet clothing clings to every inch of his skin. A puddle is forming at his feet, drops of water beading at the edges of his coat. Tiny shivers wrack his lanky frame as he stands in the doorway, one hand clutching the handle of his oversized travel case.

“Hot shower?” Len asks by way of a greeting.

“Please,” Barry says with a sigh of relief. “This city. Does it always rain like this?”

“Sometimes,” Len hedges. He reaches forward to take Barry’s bag. Once the luggage is safely tucked away, Len turns to Barry. In an instant, the younger man steps forward, invading his personal space as if he has the right – _and doesn’t he, Lenny?_ says a voice in his head that sounds just like Lisa. Len’s arms come up without thought, and he pulls Barry into a hug. The cold seeps from Barry into Len almost instantly.

Barry buries his face in Len’s shoulder and mumbles, “My clothes are wet.”

“As good a reason as any to take them off, kid,” Len replies. As chilly as the kid is, Len can feel the red-hot blush that flushes through Barry’s face and neck.

The shower they take together is like one of Barry’s kisses, warm and wet and just a little bit sloppy. And after, when Barry is draped across him in bed, Len finds his fingers gently stroking along the other man’s back as he closes his eyes and relaxes. It’s the languid, content feeling Len gets when he hasn’t seen Barry in a while, but their fucking isn’t hurried, their passion tempered with familiarity instead of fire.

Len doesn’t know how much time passes as he drifts, nearly asleep, floating in that state of half-awareness. Next to him, Barry murmurs, “It’s. It’s been two years. Do you know that?”

Leonard says nothing. He is very careful; he doesn’t twitch or even tense his body in response.

“It doesn’t feel like two years,” Barry continues. “I mean, some days, it feels like I’ve known you forever. But – but sometimes?” There is a soft sigh. “Sometimes, it’s like I don’t know you at all.”

Len’s eyes remain closed.

“I just. I mean – I know I shouldn’t ask, but I though we were... more, I guess.” And Len finds with surprise, that there is something in Barry’s voice that he doesn’t like. That mix of helpless confusion. It stings. “I spent years in love with someone who didn’t feel the same. I don’t–” Len can feel the tiny tremble that vibrates through Barry’s entire body as he stutters, “–I don’t want that. Not again.”

Len feels like he can’t breathe.

“You’re asleep. I know you’re asleep. Please don’t be asleep?” Barry lets out a small, sharp laugh. It doesn’t fit him, sounding as if it’s two sizes too small. “I’m. Fuck. I’m a coward. I can’t – why can’t I say this to you when you’re awake? Why can’t I–” A pause. Then, quietly, “I’m guess I’m just destined to chase the impossible.”

Len lays awake, long after Barry has fallen into a true sleep. The soft snores from the body next to him can’t drown out the kid’s earlier words, can’t stop Len from repeating them to himself – both the words that were spoken, and the ones that remain unsaid.

***

On Barry’s second night in Starling City, Len picks up Chinese takeout, and they sit on the floor by the foot of the hotel bed and eat with chopsticks as they talk.

Barry tells Len that he’s set up his metaphorical forensic “shop” in Oliver Queen’s warehouse. He gushes about Queen’s assistant, a Felicity Smoak, and about what a pleasure it is to work with someone who’s as much of a nerd as he is. He mentions Queen himself, wondering aloud why the man seems to hate him on sight. He muses about Queen’s dour bodyguard, about how strange it is to see one man shadow another man’s footsteps so closely. Then he starts on a subject close to his heart.

“I wanted to be there,” Barry laments, illustrating the statement with a forlorn wave of his chopsticks, nearly dropping a piece of General Tao’s chicken on the carpet. “To see the particle accelerator in person, I mean. I’m going to miss it. Oh, this sucks. Felicity is probably interested in it, too. Maybe she’ll let me stream Dr. Wells’ speech on her computer or something?”

Len knows nothing about the particle accelerator except for what Barry has told him. Over the last several months, the subject has become increasingly common among their phone calls, an incremental, verbal countdown as its completion looms. To be honest, Len had attempted to read a little bit about it in one of those science journals, but had completely lost interested after confirming it was entirely too large to steal.

“That’s this weekend, isn’t it?” Len replies to show that he has, in fact, been paying attention. He takes a bite of his egg roll.

“Yup,” Barry says with a wry smile. “I wish – I just wish I could be in two places at once. Harrison Wells’ work in quantum theory is light years ahead of anything _anyone_ is doing. The man is. Well, he’s a genius. I’d really hoped I could go with Iris, even if it’s just to stand around while they flip the switch. To be, I don’t know, part of something greater. Part of an event that’s going to make _history._ ”

As always with Barry, Leonard can’t help the smile that tugs the corners of his lips. Watching the way the kid lights up when he talks about science never gets old, even if Len can’t understand the details half the time.

“Oh! I forgot to ask, but do you know any, um. Tux places? To rent one, I mean?”

Len raises a brow. His silence asks, quite clearly, what the hell Barry needs with a tux.

“Felicity invited me to a party as her plus one,” Barry explains. He steals the egg roll out of Len’s fingers and eats what’s left of it in two bites. “It’s a work event? I just figured, how often is someone like me going to get invited to a party thrown by Oliver Queen. And then I figure, well, they probably won’t let me in unless I’m wearing a tux. Well,” he makes a face, “they might throw me out anyway. Queen really doesn’t seem to like me.”

It isn’t until Barry calls him the next night, telling him that his Captain has ordered him back to Central City, that he’s heading to the train station as they speak, that Len realizes how much he was looking forward to taking that tux off Barry, like a fancy piece of wrapping paper.

***

Things happen quickly after that. Len forgets to charge his phone, and he doesn’t fully understand the series of events until later, piecing together a handful of texts and voicemails from Barry. There’s a missed train and kidnapping – _kidnapping_ – and apparently Barry meets the costumed vigilante of Starling City and saves his life.

And if understanding the danger that Barry had been in without Len even _realizing_ it didn’t send a flood of panic through him, then listening to the news after the particle accelerator has been switched on most certainly does: “Wait!” the reporter on the TV says. “Wait! We’re now being told to evacuate the facility! The storm may have caused a malfunction to the primary cooling system. Officials are now trying to shut down the particle accelerator, but have so far been unable to regain control of the system–”

“Hey, you’ve reached the cell phone of Barry Allen. I guess I’m busy right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Barry,” Len says to the voicemail. “Call me back.”

The TV shows an explosion. The yellow-gold shockwave is a physical force.

“Hey, you’ve reached the cell phone of Barry Allen. I guess I’m busy right now–”

“Barry,” Len says, glancing up at Lisa as she enters the hotel room. She frowns and mouths: _What’s wrong?_ “Kid, call me back.”

Every channel he flips through is showing evidence of Central City’s catastrophe. Every news station is sending reports of the damages: power outages which in turn cause traffic accidents, buildings collapsing, even a small plane, knocked clean out of the sky.

“Hey, you’ve reached the cell phone of Barry Allen–”

“Barry,” Len says. He swallows, once. “Barry, please.”

Lisa glances sharply at him from where she sits by his side. Together, they watch as the casualties stack.

Len closes his eyes and repeats, “Please. Call me back.”

***

Eobard stands next to Barry’s bedside in the year 2014, making small adjustments to the IV. “ _And to be clear,_ ” he says, his voice low and ragged. There is the smallest movement in his jaw; a tiny gritting of his teeth as he lays down this complex truth: “ _Nothing is forgiven._ ”

Leonard sits by Barry’s bedside in the year 2013 where he has snuck into the hospital. He hides his face behind his hands and says nothing. His heart is pounding in his chest, his jaw tight, and if he was a different man, if he could speak the words that catch in his throat without choking on them, he would say: _It isn’t enough. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Wake up._

***


	7. [7/7] Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having been struck by lightning, Barry remains comatose. The man known as Harrison Wells has a lot of time to stand around being a creeper, and Len would like someone to blame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/05/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).  
> 05/18/17: Minor revisions, deleted author's notes, added chapter summary.

***

_This_ , the man known as Harrison Wells thinks, suppressing a vibration of anticipation, tiny, involuntary aftershocks that race like lightning up his spine, _this is the beginning._

He can feel it. The moment he steps – or, he supposes with the hint of a sneer, _rolls_ – into S.T.A.R. Labs, the moment he enters the same building, the same room where Barry Allen’s body is positioned, prone, inert, lifeless. He can _feel_ it. The Speedforce. Contained in the young man’s body, untapped potential, electric, right beneath the skin.

 _I have missed this_ , Eobard Thawne breathes in a corner of his mind like a prayer. This feeling, of being part of something so much greater – to sense that his existence is a speck of dust in this infinite, terrible universe, and yet simultaneously he is the pivotal center around which every planet and star and satellite revolves. It is fundamental, as compelling as any act of nature’s rage: the furious hurricane, the devastating tsunami, the lightning that strikes without reason. To stand before these untamed giants, to understand his place within them, to direct them without control – _my god, I have missed this,_ he thinks.

It was – easy. So ridiculously simple, to set events in motion after watching Barry struck by lightning. He finds the unencumbered chaos caused by the explosion of the particle accelerator simplifies a lot of things. His laboratory no longer bustles with zealous activity; of a staff of nearly one hundred, only two of his primary employees now remain. Dr. Snow and Cisco Ramon have both opted to continue their work at S.T.A.R. Labs, choosing to stand by his side rather than abandon him as the very real social and scientific outcast he has become. Cisco, he knows, stays because Wells has become something of a father figure to him. Caitlin stays because she cannot bear to let go of one of the last remaining connections she has left to her dead fiancé.

So many people died in the explosion caused by his machine. So many lives were lost that night and in the days that followed. The man known as Harrison Wells feels a moment of sorrow for those souls, but it is the sorrow of looking at a gravestone, a single nod of acknowledgment for those long gone. He cannot truly mourn for the dead of this century anymore than he can shed a tear over the pages of a history book.

The same cannot be said for the other occupants of this city. Having lost parents, children, friends in the events of that fated day, the people of this city now _hate_ him. He can spot it every time he rolls his wheelchair into a crowded room: the way their eyes try to stab at him like daggers, a physical target at whom they can direct their rage and helplessness for that which they have lost. These people are so angry, riddled with contempt and disdain. Some of them, he knows, desire nothing more than to kill him. 

It’s quite honestly adorable that they would think themselves capable.

It’s a familiar comfort, though, the way they hate him. However, he is well aware that something is lacking, and the hole it leaves makes his skin itch, and his blood burn, and his bones ache. Fear. He finds he misses its stink quite terribly.

Yes, they hate him. They hate him and it’s delightful. But they do not fear him.

The man known as Harrison Wells runs his tongue along his teeth, letting the steady inhale and exhale of Barry’s breathing calm him. He listens to omnipresent machinery beep with faithful uniformity. He listens to the white noise created by the steady whir of motors turning fans, which in turn cool other motors. He navigates his chair to Barry’s bedside, reaching out to lay his hand against the bare skin of Barry’s arm. A single jolt of red and yellow lightning arcs between them.

He bites down a vicious smile. They do not fear him... but they will.

He contemplates the limp body on the bed for a moment, the empty shell of a young man who will one day, quite literally, destroy this world. Transferring Barry Allen to S.T.A.R. Labs, taking complete control of his treatments, directly supervising all aspects of this healing process – after the paperwork is signed, it’s a simple thing. _Thank you, Detective West_ , Harrison muses. So hopeless, so desperate to save his surrogate son. 

_So easy_ , he thinks. There is no challenge in this. He has been maneuvering people and angling events into place for so long that now that his pieces are moving in the direction he desires without prompting, it almost seems like cheating.

They have months ahead of them. Months wherein Dr. Snow will become intimately acquainted with the science of Barry’s body, her work giving her the necessary familiarity to manage his unique biology. She will make an excellent personal physician for Barry as he trains to become the Flash. In the upcoming months, Cisco will form a sympathetic bond with the man who lay in the bed. That bond will be the basis for a working friendship, which, combined with the boy’s love of curious and advanced technology, will enable him to create the iconic gear that will one day become Barry’s symbol. 

Harrison has already planted the seeds for some of it; a brief mention to Cisco that giving back to the community may help S.T.A.R. Labs regain some of its footing in this city has the boy scrambling to help. He has already seen the specs for a re-envisioned suit for firefighters, and if it happens to closely resemble a certain yellow suit, hidden safely in Harrison’s sanctum, well–

–fate’s tricky, and it certainly does seem to have the most curious self-correcting abilities.

Which is why it is so very strange, Harrison frowns, that Leonard Snart has somehow remained a part of Barry’s life for an unprecedented two years. The criminal was smart enough to know that telling Barry the truth about his occupation would have ended their “relationship,” but still dumb enough to think that putting the matter off would make anything better in the long run. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t a conscious choice on Snart’s part: he might have been trapped in a design of his own making, unable to find a path to safety. Or perhaps Snart’s interest in Barry remained simply physical? In which case, it didn’t really matter what lies were spun in the long run; Barry was entirely too trusting in that way.

 _Not that it matters now_ , the corners of his mouth curl upward. Snart cannot reach Barry here. Perhaps by the time Barry wakes, the criminal will have moved on. And if not? Perhaps the Reverse-Flash will pay a visit to Leonard Snart. It’s nothing personal. The Flash must be kept safe.

A moment passes, then another. In the stillness and the silence, his mind whispers to him as it always does. For as complex and far-reaching as the thoughts that typically traverse his mind, there is one overarching thought that remains there, looming. It is there now, elegant in its simplicity: _Barry Allen, Barry Allen, Barry Allen._

How can so much of everything be contained in two such small, innocent words?

Eobard Thawne’s past is tied so closely to the history of the Flash that living in this century, regardless of how little he wishes to be here, feels like voyeurism. For all of his machinations, his planning and plotting and manipulations... his goals have always been simple: first, kill Barry Allen. At this failure, revision: Kill Nora Allen, prevent Barry from ever becoming the Flash. At this success, revision: Find a way home.

But how could he have known, all those years ago, how his mind will take Barry Allen – who he is, what he represents – and latch onto him as it has. How the mantra of this name, repeated over and over on nights where he finds himself adrift, lost in a sea of memory and probability, will become the very thing that urges him to never surrender. Barry has become a representation of hope, the physical embodiment of Eobard’s future.

To know Barry, all of Barry, inside and out as he does. To know his thoughts and feelings, the actions he takes in both public and private. To know him, better than he knows even himself. Sometimes Harrison wonders, how could it have come to this?

But then he realizes, his thoughts constantly landing on the same conclusion every time: Barry Allen is his nemesis. All of this, the passage of fifteen years, marooned in this barbaric era, doesn't change the fact that one day they will fight. He will destroy the Flash’s body with the immovable force of his own will. He will stand over the other’s broken, kneeling form, secure in the knowledge that he is faster, stronger, smarter. One day, he will tear out the Flash’s throat with his bare teeth and it will taste like heaven. Together, they are – equals, opposites, reverses of one another – inevitable.

 _This_ , the man known as Harrison Wells thinks, unable to stop himself as he reaches out and runs the pad of his thumb tenderly across Barry’s parted, lower lip. _This is the beginning of the end._

***

Leonard Snart hates Harrison Wells. 

There are a lot of people on the Harrison Wells hate-train, so he’s got plenty of company. But it isn’t the fact that Wells practically destroyed Central City with his machine, and it isn’t the fact that Wells doesn’t deserve to live while Barry lies in a coma. It isn’t even blame for building the particle accelerator in the first place. No, Leonard Snart hates Harrison Wells because the now-crippled bastard has decided to try and make amends for some of his failures by moving Barry to a private facility in S.T.A.R. Labs. A facility that Len cannot sneak into. A place out of his reach, where Len is unable to touch Barry’s skin and assure himself that the kid is still alive. A part of him is angry at himself for being this angry, because he knows how badly off Barry is, and a private facility might increase that tiny, tiny little chance that the kid may one day wake from his coma.

Len very pointedly tries to block out his last visit to Central City’s main hospital, but the less he wants to think about it, the clearer the picture in his mind becomes. Comatose, Barry has gone into cardiac arrest, something Len refuses to wholly acknowledge because _what the actual fuck._

How the fuck does a kid who is twenty-five years old go into cardiac arrest? How the fuck does someone who was – Jesus, struck by lightning? How the fuck does that happen? Listening to Barry’s monitor flat-line, Len swears his own heart has stopped.

It’s Lisa’s phone call from where she camps outside the hospital that alerts him; Detective West is on his way into the building. He hates to leave Barry like this, but Leonard Snart is helpless. This – all of this – is not something he can fight. Len is almost caught by the good detective anyway, despite Lisa’s warning, but a freak power outage at the hospital causes the lights to flicker off. The distraction is enough to allow him to slip past West’s notice.

That was nearly two months ago, a scant handful of days after Barry was first admitted.

Len hates this. He hates that months pass and he cannot bring himself to return to the hospital. He buries himself in his work, ignores the pointed looks his little sister gives him, and focuses on what’s important – the money.

If he happens to have hired a hacker to e-mail him updates on Barry’s condition every night, stealing digital reports directly from the hospital’s server, that is no one’s business but his own.

And if he hates Harrison Wells for taking away his choice to see Barry – and if he feels the smallest bit of relief that it is now someone else’s fault and not his own, this guilt he carries for being unable to visit, this knot of anger and self-contempt that twists his gut – well, that’s no one else’s business, either. 

So, Leonard Snart redirects that anger at Harrison Wells. It’s almost unnatural, how much hate Len can hold for a man he’s never met, for a man who probably doesn’t even know he exists.

***


	8. [1/2] Episode 1: Sleeping Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry awakens from his coma and discovers he has become something impossible. The man known as Harrison Wells sets himself up to become someone Barry can trust. Len drinks more than he should and plans to steal a diamond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/05/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).  
> 05/18/17: Minor revisions, deleted author's notes, added chapter summary.
> 
> There is quite a bit of dialogue that is either taken directly from the series or paraphrased. This dialogue? Obviously and totally not mine. But then, neither are the characters. As we move forward, and the more events change, the less dialogue will be taken directly from the show.

***

As with most things involving Barry Allen, the call comes when the man known as Harrison Wells least expects it. It is roughly nine months after events were set into motion by the explosion of the particle accelerator. There is nothing of particular note about the day, a bright but chilly morning mid-September. It is a day like any other, dull, monotonous, putting to good use the patience that has served him for over a decade.

Harrison knows that this wait, this final wait for Barry to awaken, will be... difficult, to say the least. He knows this because once the young man’s eyes open, events will be set into motion – his lips twist – in a flash. There will be training, as well as time spent with Barry to gain his trust, his respect. There will be hours upon hours dedicated to helping Barry learn to harness the awe-inspiring will of the Speedforce, to discovering that his abilities are nearly peerless and without limit. And when Barry stands tall, complacent, secure in his own superiority – oh, Harrison can feel the tingle of lightning that arcs through his body in anticipation, _be still, be calm_ , but god, he cannot _wait_ – the man in the yellow suit, the lightning man, the monster from underneath Barry’s childhood bed will be there to knock him down.

The potential for true growth, after all, is strongest in the face of adversity.

The man known as Harrison Wells is _so_ close. It’s tantalizing, machinations set into motion fourteen years ago finally – _finally_ – coming to fruition. It is precisely for this reason that his vaunted patience is being tested so brutally. He passes time where he can, in his hidden sanctuary in S.T.A.R. Labs, eyes greedily scanning Gideon’s future news articles, a constant reassurance that what he is chasing is indeed within reach. Sometimes speaking with Cisco or Caitlin, tossing out tiny morsels of genius, curious to see how their bright, young minds will adjust, alter, adapt. At night, when the young pair of scientists have gone home for the evening, he finds himself by Barry’s bedside. Alone with his thoughts as he sometimes sits, sometimes stands – a curious freedom for a man invalidated in a wheelchair, he supposes – 

– _Barry Allen_ –

– so young, so helpless, so very, very still. He’s still not used to it, really, knowing the Flash as he does. To see this young man, limp, lifeless. It’s actually unnerving. 

And so, having resigned himself to a dull, productive morning, managing some of the paperwork that comes with running a research facility – even one that’s been classified as a Class 4 hazard – he finds himself at a momentary loss when he hears Cisco’s voice over the com-link: “Dr. Wells, get down to the Cortex. Like, right now.”

The Cortex. Where the Flash must be opening his eyes for the very first time.

Oh, the thrill that spreads through him – this moment? Bliss. He cannot keep the smile from his lips any more than he can control the unchecked beating of his impatient heart.

_Barry Allen._

***

A few miles from S.T.A.R. Labs, Leonard Snart sits in a hotel room with a single bed. Lisa left him months before, her cherub-shaped face flushed red with frustration, her cupid-pout curled down in disappointment.

_“Lenny, I love you,”_ she says in his mind, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder in a practiced move. _“You’re my big bro.”_ Even in his memory, her voice sounds agitated, exasperated. _“But right now? Right now, you’re a fucking moron. The jobs you’re pulling? They’re a shit distraction from a shit situation. I don’t want anything to do with them. Give me a call when you get your head out of your ass.”_

And with all the style he’d raised her with, she’d hot-wired his rental car and left him to deal with the cleanup. 

She isn’t wrong, though. These jobs? They’re big scores with big payoffs. They are worth money in the tens, sometimes hundreds of thousands. And they are boring. He wouldn’t have looked twice at them, if he wasn’t looking away from something else.

Or rather, from someone else.

The wooden desk in his hotel room is covered in paperwork: notes he’s made for the job, specs for the plan, timeframes for the police. His laptop beeps once to let him know its finally found the wi-fi connection in this dump. This job that has him in Central City, it’s something called the Kahndaq diamond. He’s got another few weeks before the transport he’s planning to jack rolls through town. It’s enough time for him to find a crew and finalize his plans.

And if he drinks a little more than he means to, and sometimes looks towards S.T.A.R. Labs massive, quarantined structure, a little lost, a little longing? Well, the only person who might have understood bailed on him months ago. So fuck it. He raises his beer in a silent salute and takes another sip.

***

When the man known as Harrison Wells comes face to face with Barry Allen, he half expects the world to stop spinning. There is an irrational moment where he is tempted to bare his teeth in a grin and taunt: _I stabbed your mother through the heart. She bled so beautifully, and when you saw her body, your expression told me that your world just ended. Who shall I kill next, Barry, to put that look back on your face?_

Instead, he smiles cordially and says, “Welcome back, Mister Allen.” A brief wave of his hand is all the invitation he can offer to walk the hallway by his side. “Come with me. We have –” He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t. “– much to discuss.”

“I can’t believe I’m here,” Barry says. His eyes are wide and earnest, and there is hero-worship shining so very brightly in them. “I’ve always wanted to meet you. You. Your work. Dr. Wells, you’re a legend. But. Why am I here? What happened? I mean.” There is a hint of embarrassed red rising on the young man’s face. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I babble when I’m nervous.”

The corners of Harrison’s mouth turn up a little. “I make you nervous?” he asks lightly.

Barry’s mouth drops into a round little “Oh!” of surprise. “I. Was that. Did you just flirt? Did I just get flirted at by the great Harrison Wells?”

Harrison continues to smile, small, genuine, but does not confirm or deny. He takes note of the disbelieving, flattered look that lights up Barry’s entire face, then he continues, “To answer your question, nine months ago the particle accelerator went online, exactly as planned. For forty-five minutes, I had achieved my life’s dream. And then? An anomaly.”

As he describes the event and the explosion in all its glorious failure, he sees Barry nodding in understanding at certain intervals, not looking confused at any of the technical terms he tosses out. It seems as though that anonymous donation to the boy’s grade school for a free science camp during the summer has certainly paid off in the long run.

“– which in turn seeded a storm-cloud –”

“– that created the lightning bolt that struck me!” Barry interjects, eyes widening as he begins to understand exactly why Harrison Wells might have a vested interest in his recovery. It’s as good a cover story as any he has manufactured, and in his time in this century, he has come up with _many_. 

“That’s right,” Harrison continues smoothly. “I was recovering myself when I heard about you. You see, the hospital where you were recovering was undergoing unexplainable power outages every time _you_ went into cardiac arrest.” He waves an impatient hand. “A misdiagnosis because, you see, you weren't flat-lining, Barry.” A quiet thrill, that intimate, uninvited use of the young man’s name. He cannot allow himself to dwell on it, and he explains, “Your heartbeat was moving too fast for the EKG to register. As for how you ended up here? I'm not the most popular person in town these days but, Detective West and his daughter gave me permission to bring you here, where –”

And they have come full circle, back in the Cortex where this conversation first began. Caitlin interrupts, “– where we were able to stabilize you.”

“Iris?” Barry asks quietly.

“Iris, yes.” Harrison offers another smile, the harmless one he sometimes must practice in the mirror. “She came to see you quite often.”

“She talks a lot,” Caitlin states without tact.

Cisco, also without tact, grins, “Also, she's hot.”

“I.” Barry’s expression is lost. “Was there. Did anyone else come to see me?”

“Joe West, of course,” Harrison replies. “A few officers from the station. Was there –” He pauses for just a moment, as if he doesn’t realize Barry is thinking of Leonard Snart, “– someone in particular?”

“I. No. I thought, maybe... but I guess not,” there is so much unsaid in that statement. The weight of it nearly makes that Harrison smile again. Abruptly, Barry says, “I need to go.”

“No, you can't,” Caitlin protests.

“Caitlin's right,” Harrison says. “Now that you're awake, we need to do more tests. You're still going through changes, there's so much that we don't know –”

“I'm fine, really. I feel normal.” Barry pats his own body up and down, as if to reassure himself of this very thing. Then he turns, grabbing Caitlin’s hand and pumping it up and down. He lets go, spins on one heel, and grabs Cisco’s hand, giving it the same treatment. “Thank you. Thank you for saving my life.”

When Barry strides over to where the man known as Harrison Wells sits in his wheelchair, reaching out with both hands to grip one of Harrison’s, Harrison himself is unprepared for the tingle that accompanies the touch. He has reached out to lay a hand on Barry many times over the last few months, but this? This is the first time the young man has ever reached for him first.

“Dr. Wells,” Barry says sincerely. “Thank you.” A pause, then in an abashed whisper, “Can I keep the sweatshirt?”

“Yeah,” Harrison tries not to laugh because for some reason, fourteen years didn’t prepare him for how very surreal this situation feels. He shakes his head instead, sighs. “Keep the sweatshirt.”

***

Leonard Snart eats breakfast at his favorite diner. He is happy to note today’s weather warrants the use of his parka; the thick, heavy jacket is a comfortable and familiar weight on his shoulders. Besides the fact that his grandfather always wore a parka like the one Len now sports, its fuzzy, warm hood is excellent for concealing the headset Len uses to listen in on to the police radio.

He sips his coffee, liberally doused with both cream and sugar, and crunches a thick-cut slice of bacon between his teeth. The electronic in his ear says: _5-50 in progress at Gold City Bank. Two dead._

There is a short burst of static, then: _Storm's really picking up on the south side._

Leonard Snart glances out the window. There isn’t a single cloud in the sky, nor a hint of gray. The wind is present, but only strong enough to carry a chill, kicking up the kaleidoscope of motley red, yellow, and musty brown leaves on the pavement, making them dance across the busy street.

Clear, beautifully blue skies always remind him of Barry’s eyes. He turns away from the window abruptly and takes another sip of his coffee. But as he continues to listen to the police radio, making mental notes as he tallies their response times, he can’t help but wonder: _Storm?_

***

“You don't really believe he can run that fast, do you?”

Harrison glances at Caitlin, hearing the thick disbelief in her voice. _No_ , he wants to say. _I don’t believe he can run that fast, because the Flash I know? He’s much, much faster._

Instead, he hedges, “I believe anything is possible.” He glances over at Barry as the young man joins them on the deserted practice track. He is wearing a ridiculous, bright red, skintight body sleeve, with a helmet and some wiring rigged up to monitor his vitals. “And in a few minutes?” Harrison smiles, “maybe you will too.”

Earlier that day, Barry had come to S.T.A.R. Labs, claiming that the lightning had altered him. He described an event at the police station, where he’d moved before he could even think about what he was doing or why, preventing a captured suspect from taking a police officer’s holstered weapon, all without anyone realizing the altercation had taken place. He said he’d stumbled out back of the station, disoriented, crashing into a police car with his body hard enough to shatter the back, bulletproof window. He claimed he was able to traverse nearly a mile of alleyway in mere seconds. 

The man known as Harrison Wells had Gideon archive most of that footage, partly for posterity, and partly because it was fascinating to see the Flash as he fumbled through his newfound abilities like a toddler who’d been handed the keys to a very pricey sports car.

“How does it fit?” he hears Cisco ask.

From the corner of his eyes, Harrison sees Barry shift from one foot to the other, uncomfortable, embarrassed. “It's a little snug,” the young man replies. 

_So strange_ , Harrison thinks. So very, very strange, to be here at this auspicious beginning. A moment in history unlike any other, because this is the moment where superheroes are born. There are others out there already, vigilantes like Oliver Queen in Starling City and Bruce Wayne in Gotham. There are even those who have abilities, powers not of this world, like Superman in Metropolis and some of the supernatural users who are scattered across the globe. But this? Right here, right now? 

Unlike Superman who was born on another world, and unlike those users of the occult who draw their powers from worship and ritual, Barry Allen – the Flash – is _human_ – granted, a human who gained abilities from a freak accident, but a being of flesh and blood regardless. Where vigilantes avenge perceived wrongs from their pasts, always working angles and vendettas, Barry Allen is going to choose to help people simply because he can, firm in the belief that because he has power, he also must be held accountable for it. That’s one thing the man known as Harrison Wells always admired about the Flash, even in the future; for all his faults and failings, the man started his crusade because he genuinely wanted to help.

Something Harrison can respect, even if he doesn’t actually agree with it.

Noting that Barry is finally ready for his first field test, he maneuvers his wheelchair into a better position to watch. “Mister Allen,” Harrison says, savoring the truth of the words as he twists them, “while I am extremely eager to determine your full range of abilities, I do caution restraint.”

And like the toddler Harrison had compared him to early, Barry Allen lets out an exalted cry of joy as he launches himself forward, letting loose his inhibitions, and disappearing in a flash.

Harrison’s entire body feels it, the urge to follow Barry as he runs – the urge to run together, as they fight and fight and fight, speeds that no one else on this planet can touch – it’s a physical ache.

Cisco’s eyes are wide and round, and they shine like two silver dollars. “Holy shit. Guys? He just passed 200 knots per hour.”

Internally, Harrison scoffs. So slow.

“That's not possible,” Caitlyn murmurs, not taking her disbelieving eyes from Barry’s blurry, red figure. 

And then, a crash. Loud, abrupt, unexpected. Harrison can hear Barry’s breathy whimper of pain over the com-link. The first of many training accidents, he supposes. He wonders, briefly, what the young man has broken, and then shrugs away the thought: no matter what bones Barry has mangled, his swift regenerative abilities will make fairly quick work of his recovery.

***

As Caitlin patches Barry up, ordering a full gambit of tests as she discovers how quickly he heals, Harrison feels compelled to ask, “What happened out there today? You were moving pretty well until... something caused you to lose focus?”

Harrison watches as Barry frowns at the covers of the hospital-like bed he’s perched upon. There is resignation in his voice as he describes his mother’s murder in detail, and there is a part of Harrison that feels like a voyeur, to hear this second-hand description for an event with which he is already intimately familiar. Another part of him delights, because the pain and misery in Barry’s voice is as fresh as the grief he’d witnessed fourteen years prior.

“Everyone,” Barry says. “The cops, the shrink, they all told me what I saw was impossible. But what if,” Barry looks at Harrison, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “What if the man who killed my mom is like me?”

Harrison reaches a hand out, placing it over Barry’s. Barry smiles at him, a lost, lopsided little thing, and does not pull away. 

Cold comfort, the man known as Harrison Wells supposes, suppressing a tiny smirk.

***


	9. [2/2] Episode 1: Prince Charming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry makes some discussions regarding his new abilities. The man in red and Clyde Mardon square off against each other, only for events to take a surprising twist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/05/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).  
> 05/21/17: Minor revisions, deleted author's notes, added chapter summary.

***

There is a blur of red light, a breeze that causes the papers on the desks to flutter. It is more difficult than the man known as Harrison Wells anticipates, to _not_ follow these movements with his eyes. Movements that should be too fast for the naked eye to follow, but to him, it’s so easy, child’s play. It will take a bit of practice, but he is confident that in the beginning, no one will pay him much attention when Barry first enters the room; by the time that glow of initial wonder has worn off, Harrison will have adjusted, adapted.

“Dr. Wells, I need. I need to talk to you. You, Cisco, Caitlin...” Barry comes to a halt before him, biting his lower lip, his bright blue eyes troubled. “It’s about. Well, there’s a police investigation for a bank robbery, and I know who did it. Only, it’s impossible.”

“Of course, Mr. Allen,” Harrison replies easily. Having kept up with the news, he knows Barry refers to the recent string of bizarre robberies that have plagued Central City. The discovery of other metahumans is inevitable, though he hadn’t realized the young man would figure things out so quickly. He hits a button on the com-link and says, “Cisco? Dr. Snow? If you could come down to the Cortex, please?”

“What’s up, Dr. Wells?” Cisco calls out, only a room away. He peeks his head around the door and brightens immediately. “Oh! Hey, Barry! I didn’t know you’d be stopping by today.”

Harrison has to repress a smile. Cisco’s infatuation, not with Barry Allen, but with the notion of superpowers, is rather amusing. He’s heard muttering from the boy on a daily basis, playing with words, trying to come up with a fitting name for Barry and his super-speed.

Caitlin strides into the room a moment later, her heels clicking pointedly on the tiled floor. The way she walks reflects her personality rather accurately – back ramrod straight, uptight, always at the same, marked pace. Harrison muses that a lot can be discerned about a person from the way they walk, his eyes taking in the loose, easy way Cisco crosses the room to shake Barry’s hand in greeting.

Barry coughs, clearing his throat. “I. I was just telling Dr. Wells about a bank robbery that took place today. A bank robbery by an impossible bank robber. I know who did it. Only. Only he can’t have done it, because he died the night the particle accelerator exploded.”

Harrison notes that Barry’s eyes are scanning each of their faces, perhaps a little wildly. Searching for the slightest hint of doubt, perhaps? He rolls his chair forward, giving Barry a reassuring look. “Go on,” he encourages, his voice strong, commanding.

Barry smiles in response, grateful, then continues, “His name is Clyde Mardon. He was in a plane with his brother that night, evading the police. When the accelerator blew–”

“Oh!” Cisco interrupts. “Oh, oh! That was the plane that got knocked out of the sky?”

“Yes,” Barry nods. “Only Clyde didn’t die like everyone thought. Something happened to him that night, just like something happened to me. I think. I think he can control the weather.” There is a tiny sound that Harrison identifies as a laugh. “I know, it sounds crazy. But today’s bank robbery? And the ones that happened in the last few months? All of them took place during freak meteorological events. I.” Here, Barry looks a little embarrassed. “Um. I confronted him, maybe an hour ago? The street was instantly enveloped in fog.”

One of Harrison’s hands tightens on the armrest of his wheelchair. Confronting a metahuman before he has any real understanding of his abilities? The foolish boy could have died. He wills his fingers to relax and focuses his attention back to what Barry is saying.

“I wasn't the only one affected, was I?” Barry asks, staring at each of them in turn. Both Caitlin and Cisco can’t meet his eyes for long and look away first.

The man known as Harrison Wells is not the kind of man who looks away first. He meets Barry’s accusing blue eyes, shakes his head, and remarks noncommittally, “We don't know for sure.”

“But you suspected, didn’t you?” Barry says shrewdly. “You said. You said the city was safe, that there was no residual danger. But that’s not true, is it?”

“When the accelerator went active,” Harrison says, internally amused by Barry’s single-minded perceptiveness, “we all felt like heroes. And then it all went wrong. A dimensional barrier ruptured, unleashing unknown energies into our world – anti-matter, dark energy, x-elements–”

“Those are all theoretical,” Barry frowns, brow furrowing.

“And just how theoretical are you?” Harrison counters, lips twisting in a small smile. He rolls his chair over to one of the computer terminals, tapping a few keys to bring up the pertinent data on the monitor. “We've mapped dispersion throughout and around Central City but we have no way of knowing exactly what or...” He pauses for emphasis, “ _who_ was exposed. We have been searching, though, for other metahumans like yourself.”

Barry blinks. “Metahumans?”

Caitlin volunteers quickly, “That's what we’ve been calling them.”

“A bank robber who controls the weather,” Cisco shakes his head. There is a hint of childish amazement in his voice. “I need a name. Weather-something. Weather-man? No, no, too mild-mannered serial killer. Or possibly porn star.”

“Cisco,” Barry says, looking pained. “A man died today. Because of Mardon. Because I wasn’t able to stop him.”

Cisco is instantly chagrined. “Sorry, Barry. I know this is serious. I do. I just. Superpowers, man? This is my childhood dream come true.”

“It’s someone else’s nightmare,” Barry frowns. “I need. _We_ need to stop him, before he hurts anyone else.”

“Barry,” Harrison interjects. “That's a job for the police.”

“Yeah,” Barry replies, with a hint of cockiness that seems out of place, “I work for the police.”

“As a forensic assistant,” Harrison points out reasonably.

Barry shifts from one foot to the other. His breathing is harsh, agitated, and the man known as Harrison Wells feels a hint of disquiet as the young man declares: “You're responsible for this. For him.”

It’s almost as though the Flash of the future is there, standing before him, judging him without cause. It makes him grit his teeth and respond, frustration and irritation seeping into his voice before he can modulate it: “What's important is _you_ , Barry! Not me. I lost everything. I lost my company. I lost my reputation. I lost my,” He flicks his hand towards his legs, a sharp, angry movement, and spits, “freedom.”

Fixing the young man with a piercing stare, he says, “And then you broke your arm, and it healed in three hours. Your body, what you can do, it’s priceless. We cannot risk losing everything because you want to go out and ‘play hero’. You're not a hero.” Oh, the irony. So thick, he can barely speak around it. But how liberating, to be able to tell the Flash this without reprise, even if it’s not true. It is with relish he can barely keep from expressing that he says, “You're just a young man who was struck by lightning.”

Barry gives him a look, angry, even a little betrayed. He storms from the lab, and runs, runs, runs.

Harrison stares at the door for a moment, then nods once before turning away. Caitlin and Cisco both give him a wide berth as he steers his way to his office, his expression cautiously blank. That particular exchange went as well as could be expected, and laid the ground work for when he “changed his mind,” later on, showing Barry that while he was a proud man, he could also “learn from his mistakes” when given the opportunity.

After all, true growth is strongest in the face of adversity. If he wants to strengthen the bond between himself and Barry, first he will need to thoroughly test it.

***

The man known as Harrison Wells sits in his office, leaning comfortably back in his wheelchair as he listens through the com-link to the plotting going on right under his nose. It’s cute, really, how they think they’re being sly about the whole affair.

“I've been going over unsolved cases from the past nine months,” Barry’s voice says. He describes the sharp increase in unexplained deaths, the curious cases of missing people, the lack of explanation that accompanies these events. “Your metahumans? They’ve been busy. But it’s not. I'm not _blaming_ you,” he says, earnestly, full of some unnamed emotion. “I know you, none of you, meant for this to happen. I know you all lost something. But, please. I need your help to stop Mardon, to catch anyone else like him. I can't do it without you.”

And there it is, Harrison muses. The voice of inspiration. The man who can take a room full of non-believers and convert them to his way of thinking with the gentle, hypnotic power of his voice alone. In the future, Barry Allen had been famed for it, actually. He could convince a criminal to turn state’s evidence in less ten minutes flat. Strange, to listen to him use that ability on his allies.

Cisco pipes up, “If we're gonna do this, I have something that might help.” There is a pause, some metallic shuffling, and then, “It's designed to replace the turnouts firefighters traditionally wear. I thought if Star Labs could do something nice for the community, maybe people wouldn't be so angry at Dr. Wells anymore.”

Such a sweet kid, Harrison muses. But the big reveal is lost on Barry, who seems confused as he questions, “How is that supposed to help me?”

“It's made of a reinforced tri-polymer,” Cisco says, and Harrison can hear the pride in his voice as he speaks about his design. “It's heat and abrasive resistant, so it should withstand your moving at high-velocity speeds. Plus, it has built-in sensors, so we can track your vitals, and stay in contact with you from here.”

“Thanks, Cisco,” Barry says. “That sounds perfect. Now, how do we find Mardon?”

Caitlin’s voice is clipped: “I re-tasked S.T.A.R. Labs satellites to track meteorological abnormalities over Central City. We just got a ping. Atmospheric pressure dropped twenty millibars in a matter of seconds. I've tracked it to a farm just west of the city.”

“Okay.” Barry says. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Harrison keeps an ear out, listening to the situation as it unravels. A metahuman who can control the weather, an F5 tornado with wind-speeds increasing from two hundred miles per hour, a bizarre man-made natural disaster, heading towards their fine city.

He hears Barry’s raw panic over the com-link: “How? How do I stop it?” Then, answering his own question with the ingenious suggestion, “What if I unravel it?”

He hears Cisco bite out, “How the hell are you going do that?”

“I'll run around it in the opposite direction,” Barry replies breathlessly. “Cut off its legs.”

Caitlin whispers to Cisco, “He'd have to clock over seven hundred miles per hour to do that.”

“Your body may not be able to handle those speeds,” Cisco points out.

“You’ll die,” Caitlin adds, voice shrill in the face of her very real fear.

“I have to try,” Barry calls out across the com-link. He does. He tries and tries and fails. 

And this is the moment that Harrison has been waiting for. When all hope seems lost, he maneuvers his wheelchair to sit between where Caitlin and Cisco are trying their best to support the Flash. Ignoring their shocked and stunned expressions, he leans forward and urges directly into the com-link, “You can do this, Barry.”

He wets his lips, breathes deep, and continues, “You were right. I am responsible for all this. So many people have been hurt because of me, and when I looked at you... all I saw was another potential victim of my hubris, and yes, I created this madness, but you, Barry, you can stop it.” Injecting as much certainty as he possibly can into his voice, secure in the knowledge that Barry can do this because he has seen the Flash do so much more, he repeats, “You can do this. Now, run, Barry. Run!”

A minute passes in an instant, the monitors tracking the event show that Barry has indeed succeeded in his first self-imposed “mission.” Then, “Hey,” comes the hazy, unknown voice over the com-link, faint but still audible “I didn’t think there was anyone else like me.”

“I’m not like you,” Barry replies, and there is a loud bang, a cry of pain. 

Hastily, Harrison presses the com-link to the suit and calls out, “Barry! Barry, can you hear me?”

There is no response. Then, without warning, Barry is in front of them in the Cortex, staggering under the weight of another man’s unconscious body. The pair crash to the ground, and Caitlin and Cisco jump up from their seats, surprise and confusion written on their faces at the chaos. 

“He’s. I don’t. I don’t know what happened. Someone shot him? Joe was there, he didn’t. I mean, I don’t think he knows who I am.” Barry’s hand is pressed against the bullet wound on Clyde’s shoulder, the gushing blood barely noticeable against the red of his suit. “Please,” the young man begs, staring up a Harrison with wide, frightened eyes. “Help me.”

Barry’s cowl is still up, hiding his face, but the man known as Harrison Wells marvels at those painfully expressive eyes. 

“Cisco,” Harrison says, “fetch a gurney from medical, help Barry get him onto the bed. Keep Mr. Mardon sedated. We don’t want him waking up until after we’ve gotten that bullet out of him. If you need assistance with the surgery, Caitlyn, I’m sure Barry will be up to the task. Cisco, with me. We have some... alterations to make in the Pipeline.”

“Surgery!” Caitlin protests, eyes widening in shock. “I’m not! I mean, I can’t!” She starts to hyperventilate. 

“Yes, Dr. Snow,” Harrison says. “You can. You can because you are the only doctor we currently have on staff, and if you don’t, this man will die. You can do this, because there is no choice, no alternative. Life or death. I have faith in you.”

“Okay,” she says faintly. She takes a shaky breath, and repeats. “Okay. Barry?”

“Yeah,” Barry says. “Yeah, okay.”

“Let’s move, people,” Harrison says. And like magic, his voice, the surety of the commands he issues, sets this young, inexperienced team scrambling to follow his orders.

***

Clyde Mardon is on the video screen. He looks angry, trapped like an animal in the small, glass-like cell. He pounds his uninjured fist against the wall and screams, “YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO GOD!”

“He’s a real Prince Charming, isn’t he?” the man known as Harrison Wells muses, his lips quirked up in a half-smile.

“That cell,” Caitlin questions, “It’ll hold, won’t it? I mean, it’s safe?”

Cisco frowns and says, “We’ve rigged the cavities in the Pipeline’s core chamber into makeshift prison cells. Each cavity uses an 8.3 tesla super-conducting electromagnet to power the barrier, so basically it’s about one-hundred _thousand_ times stronger than the Earth’s magnetic field. Also, interesting and relieving note, the field seems to be blocking his connection to the sky.” 

“So... it’ll hold?” Caitlin repeats. “And... we’re just supposed to get used to working above a makeshift prison housing evil people. With superpowers.”

Barry bites his lip. “Basically. But this has to be temporary. We can’t. I mean. It’s not right to keep anyone locked in there like an animal; Iron Heights just isn’t equipped to deal with housing metahumans yet. Cisco, is there a way to – I don’t know – neutralize the abilities of these metahumans we find? So that the ones who _are_ violent can be sent to an actual prison?”

“It would have to be on a case-by-case basis,” Cisco says, pursing his lips in deep thought. He closes his eyes and rubs his temples as he contemplates the issue.

“Okay,” Barry says. “Okay. I don’t. I mean, you guys shouldn’t go in there. I don’t want him seeing your faces.” He sighs, frowning thoughtfully. “We’ll need to rig up some sort of bathroom? And a bed, or something? Caitlin, how long will it take that bullet wound to heal?”

Caitlin tilts her head. “There wasn’t any bone damage. Assuming he heals at a normal, un-accelerated rate, probably about two months, and maybe another two months in a sling to be safe?”

“Which mean he’s going to need medical care. From you. For at least two months, give or take,” Barry sighs, sounding like the world has come to rest squarely on his shoulders. “So we’ll need to rig up something – maybe some kind of gas? – to knock him out in his sleep, so that you can work on him without him seeing your face.”

Barry looks over at Harrison, holding up a hand and ticking down his fingers with each point he lists off, “Knockout gas for medical care, toilet, bed.” He wiggles his pinky, “Plus we’ll need to feed him. Three meals a day?”

Harrison smiles and says, “It seems like you have things all worked out, Mr. Allen. Cisco and I will deal with the technical details and we’ll see what we can come up with.”

“I’m going to visit him,” Barry continues without preamble. “At least once a day.”

“What?” Caitlin blinks. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I’m not condemning a man to weeks, maybe even months, in solitary confinement for no reason. He’s dangerous, yes. He’s a criminal, and a killer, and he suffers from some major delusions of grandeur–” On the computer screen, Mardon continues pounding the glass, still screaming obscenities about daring to treat God in this manner, “–but he’s still a human being. And I. Well, if I didn’t, what kind of human being would that make me?”

“Weather Wizard!” Cisco blurts out. “Nailed it!” 

Caitlin shakes her head, a small smile on her usually stoic face, and says, “Come on, Cisco. I need ice cream. Lots of ice cream. This is not the day I pictured having when I woke up this morning.” She offers him her arm and together the pair walk out of the Cortex and off, presumably to get ice cream.

“Dr. Wells?” 

Harrison glances over at where Barry has slumped against the wall. The Flash looks exhausted, overwhelmed, and so very, very young.

“Is everything all right, Barry?” he asks quietly. He rolls his chair over to a nearby terminal, tapping a few buttons. Clyde Mardon’s image disappears from the screen.

The cowl of Barry’s outfit has long since been pulled back, and Barry runs a shaky hand through his dark, sweaty hair. He swallows once, pulling his hand away from his head as he realizes his palms and fingers are still sticky with Mardon’s blood. “It’s just. It’s been a long day. I don’t. I’m not sure what’s real anymore.”

Harrison smiles, a practiced, reassuring expression, and teases, “Now, did you start feeling that way before or after you unraveled a tornado?”

Barry laughs breathlessly. “Before, actually,” he replies. “The tornado was just icing. Or gravy. Or something.”

Harrison rolls his chair forward, lining himself up directly next to the young man. He then extends a hand and lays it gently on Barry’s arm. “What happened out there today, Barry?”

Barry shakes his head. “I don’t. I can’t even begin to tell you. I stopped the tornado, and then Mardon pulled a gun on me. I didn’t. I didn’t think, I guess. Joe was there, he had his gun, but – Joe didn’t take the shot. Someone else did.”

Eyes narrowing, running through a series of suspects, each more unlikely than the next, Harrison presses, “Someone else?”

“It all happened so fast,” Barry says miserably. “I’m sorry, I didn’t. I didn’t see–”

Harrison gives Barry’s arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Don’t stress about it. It’s over. Besides, whoever took the shot? Whether they are friend or foe, I’m quite certain we haven’t seen the last of them.”

“Yeah,” Barry mumbles. “You’re probably right.”

“I usually am,” Harrison replies mildly. 

They remain like that, side by side. Harrison listens to Barry’s breathing, so reminiscent of the nights he sat by the comatose young man’s bedside. The gentle rise and fall of Barry’s chest, the long, soft sighs as Barry slowly, visibly relaxes, his tense body unwinding gradually, a curious contrast to his usual speed.

Quietly, so as not to disturb this comfortable silence that has fallen between them, the man known as Harrison Wells repeats his earlier question: “Is everything all right, Barry?”

Beside him, Barry trembles. Not the electric vibration of movement that cannot be contained, but rather the tiny, almost imperceptible shaking of a man who is lost, alone, and so afraid. He repeats his earlier answer as well, but the words are so much heavier than when he first spoke them: “I’m not sure what’s real anymore.”

Harrison remains silent, allowing Barry to gather his thoughts. In the stillness, he studies Barry’s face in the fluorescent lighting of the Cortex. The naked emotion there is raw in its intensity. This is the face that Barry has been hiding these past few days, unwilling to burden those he thinks of as his family, his friends. This is a face worn with internal struggle, a crumpled, ragged expression without any sign of relief. It is perhaps the most beautiful expression the man known as Harrison Wells has ever seen. Beautiful in submission, and beautiful in suffering. _Oh, Mr. Allen_ , he muses, _you are indeed a treasure._

“I.” Barry starts. Stops. Shakes his head. “There is someone I was. Seeing? Dating? I don’t know what we were. Before the accident, I mean. And today I saw Iris – she’s dating Joe’s partner, Eddie Thawne? – and I just. This guy I was seeing? I miss him. So I called–”

Harrison controls his expression. So many troubling things, tumbling from Barry’s sweet lips. Iris and his failure of an ancestor. These emotions concerning Snart. He forces himself to remain calm and focuses on Barry’s words.

“–and he changed his number. Again.” Barry snorts. “He was always doing that. Switching numbers, every couple of months. Something about a persistent stalker? I don’t know. But I don’t. I never even saw where he lived. There’s no way I can get in touch with him. And I don’t. I. Do I even want to?”

 _This is the moment_ , Harrison thinks. He does not smile. 

“I cannot speak for what you should or shouldn’t do,” he tells Barry. His voice is carefully modulated, gentle, caring, full of unspoken reassurance. “All I can tell you is that based on the relationship you’ve just described to me? No matter what you may believe, Barry Allen, you are worth so much more.”

Barry smiles. It’s a small, miserable smile, and it wobbles uncertainly on his lips. He does not cry, but it looks to be a near thing. “Thanks, Dr. Wells.”

“Harrison,” he volunteers. “We saved the city today. I’m fairly certain that puts us on a first name basis, when we’re in private at least.”

“Harrison,” Barry repeats. His smile is a little steadier.

The man known as Harrison Wells smiles back. It is the small, reassuring smile he has practiced so many times. It expresses nothing – _nothing_ – of the savage glee that rips like a sharp knife through his chest.

***


	10. [1/3] Episode 2: The Winter Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry realizes that a hero is only as good as his support team. Cisco and Caitlin discover why Barry keeps fainting, and the man known as Harrison Wells gives surprisingly good advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/05/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).  
> 05/21/17: Minor revisions, deleted author's notes, added chapter summary.

***

The man known as Harrison Wells turns a blind eye over the next several days, as Barry and Cisco use S.T.A.R. Labs computers to hijack the signal of the local police radio. They take to stopping crimes and fighting natural disasters that have nothing to do with metahumans, and everything to do with Barry’s naïve desire to play hero. To be honest, it’s almost like watching a child play dress-up in his father’s clothing; Barry Allen may be the Flash, but right now? Right now he is just the man in red, a blurry streak that doesn’t even rate as an urban legend.

Harrison’s patience is tested daily, as he silently wills Barry to be better, to go faster. His yellow suit beckons enticingly from his secret sanctuary in the corridor and he must carefully regulate his breathing, calm the pounding in his veins, and repeat his mantra: _Soon, very soon. But not yet, Barry. Not yet._

Every day, without fail, Barry comes to S.T.A.R. Labs. He lets Caitlin run her tests and take her samples. He fistbumps Cisco, and the pair can usually be found grinning over some curious bit of new technology. He himself makes sure Barry gets at least thirty minutes of training in, though he hopes that amount will increase as the young man realizes how much more he can grow. And then, Barry dons his red suit and zips down to the Pipeline, where he spends an hour in the company of a raving, raging criminal.

Harrison is the first to admit a touch of amazement that Barry actually remembers to take appropriate precautions. The suit protects his face and body from Clyde Mardon’s curious eyes, and Barry is quick to find that he can make himself more difficult to identify by vibrating his body at a high speed, causing his image to appear blurry and out of focus. In a similar manner, he also learns that by vibrating his vocal cords, he can distort his voice beyond recognition. Harrison is quite pleased that if nothing else, the time spent with Mardon helps Barry get into the habit of disguising both his appearance and his voice, a habit which will hopefully carry over into his vigilante activities as the Flash.

It is far simpler to protect a secret identity, after all, than it is to protect a man exposed.

With Barry’s continued visits, Clyde Mardon seems to be calming. Whatever he and Barry talk about – Harrison has the video set aside for later perusal, when he has more time available to fully study it – seems to have curbed some of the criminal’s more extremist views. If nothing else, he’s stopped fruitlessly pounding on the walls (though that may be because the movement upsets his still-healing bullet wound) and no longer refers to himself as God. Harrison is unsure if this is a small step or a giant leap, but it’s certainly progress.

The man known as Harrison Wells is less concerned about the curiosity trapped safely in the Pipeline, and more concerned with the two variables that are presently afoot in Central City.

First, Leonard Snart: Barry’s once-lover, full-time criminal, and possible future adversary. The man has been in Central City for the last few weeks, planning one of his heists. When he isn’t gathering data, networking with other criminals, and acquiring supplies, he can generally be found locked in his hotel room, drinking to the point of stupidity. Harrison is most curious that Snart has not yet attempted to contact Barry, because surely the man is aware that he is no longer comatose?

And yet, there is nothing that suggests that Snart has been informed. If, as Barry admitted a few days prior, Snart has changed his phone number, replacing it with yet another burner phone that the outlawed demographic is so fond of, it’s very likely that Joe West and his daughter would have no means of contacting Snart to keep him updated on Barry’s progress. That’s assuming that either of them had access to the phone number in the first place, or that they were cognizant of Barry’s on-again off-again relationship that spanned the course of nearly two years and amounted to little more than a cross-country booty call.

No. Snart should, in theory, have his own surveillance system in place. That he hasn’t acted on that information, or that he is somehow still unaware of it – it’s curious. Possibly even troubling, as it makes predicting the criminal’s endgame more complicated. 

Which brings Harrison to his second unchecked variable – the mystery shooter. Having gone back to hack into all video footage, of which there is very little given the off-beat location of the farm where the event took place, he is left with more questions than answers. The scene played out as Barry described: the unraveling of the tornado, and Clyde Mardon pulling a gun on the still-hooded form of the Flash. Joe West is there, gun in hand, looking ready to take that shot. In fact, it appears as though Detective West may have indeed pulled the trigger, seconds after a shooter off screen put a bullet in Mardon’s shoulder, dropping him to the ground; West’s bullet whizzes harmlessly over Mardon’s head.

The shooter isn’t visible in any of the three camera feeds Harrison finds that survey the farm. It could be luck, or the shooter may have accounted for those cameras picking up his image and taken care to avoid them. The bullet dug from Mardon’s shoulder isn’t helpful either. It’s a thirty-eight special, and unarguably one of the most common types of ammunition in this century – usually, but not exclusively, used with a revolver. In the end, the only real confirmation it offers is that this mystery shooter uses a gun.

Harrison plays the information over in his head – a single shot, implying good marksmanship. Also, as a second shot was not taken, it’s likely that Mardon is the intended target. The resulting injury? A non-fatal wound, no noticeable damage to the bones in Mardon’s shoulder. Luck? Or perhaps an intimate knowledge of anatomy and the desire not to kill? Why shoot Mardon if Joe West was already in position? In fact, if the shooter had hesitated for a few more seconds, Detective West’s bullet would have stopped Mardon just as surely without tipping anyone off that there was someone else on the farm that night. Unless the shooter’s goal wasn’t simply to stop Mardon or protect Barry. But if not that, what other outcome could be achieved by shooting the man?

On a hunch, he checks the security cameras at the hotel where Snart is staying. Matching up the timeframes, he easily confirms that Snart is sitting by the window, attempting to drown himself with a bottle of beer at the time of the shooting.

It’s a mystery, certainly. One the man known as Harrison Wells isn’t entirely certain he minds. His plans have been coming together so smoothly, it’s only natural for a few kinks to find a way into the mix. Recognizing a problem is the first step to solving it, after all.

There is a familiar whoosh of air, signaling that Barry has entered the building. From the other room, he hears Caitlin’s voice as she raises it, furious, “Have you both lost your minds? Who do you think you are?” 

Cisco’s reply is an inaudible mumble, but Caitlin’s response is quite clear. “This isn’t funny! You could have gotten yourself killed! You can’t just – run around the city, like some supersonic fireman!”

Ah. Apparently the good Dr. Snow has discovered Barry’s recent crime fighting activities, as well as Cisco’s hand in assisting him. Barry’s response is lost to him as he directs his wheelchair to the Cortex where the conversation is taking place. He isn’t certain his presence has been noticed until Caitlin rounds on him, fury and frustration at war in her eyes. “Will you please say something?” she demands.

Harrison clears his throat, moving his chair forward an inch as he obliges, “I think what Caitlin is saying, in her own spectacularly angry way, is that we are just beginning to understand what your body is capable of. Not to sound like a broken record, Mr. Allen, but I do caution restraint.”

“Dr. Wells,” Barry says, shaking his head, his voice tinged with admiration, “I seriously doubt restraint is how you got to be the man you are today.”

As thrilling as it is, hearing that touch of hero-worship that lingers in Barry’s voice, Harrison takes the obvious opening the young man leaves him and replies, “In a wheelchair and a pariah. Indeed, Barry. Lack of restraint is what made me these things.” Check and mate. He shakes his head and cautions, “Know your limits.”

The irony of that statement causes him to smile faintly as Caitlin continues to berate Barry for his recklessness. The Flash has very few limits. The sooner Barry learns that, the better.

“Hey,” Cisco says abruptly. “Did anything, um, _happen_ out there today? The sensors in the suit were kicking back some weird telemetry. Like, your vitals spiked for a few seconds.”

“Never felt better,” Barry replies after the briefest hesitation. 

_Oh, Mr. Allen_ , Harrion muses. _You are a spectacularly terrible liar. How unexpectedly endearing._ Strange spikes in the feedback and Barry telling Cisco that everything is fine lead him to the obvious conclusion – the young man hasn’t yet learned that his abilities require a massive caloric intake every time he uses them. It likely wasn’t noticeable until now because it’s taken Barry this long to become comfortable with using his abilities. Subsequently, this means he has started using them more often.

At nearly two weeks since Barry has woken from his coma, the young man has completely burned through the fatty pockets his body had stored previously for use in emergency. The stubborn little idiot will be fainting for the foreseeable future, until he takes a moment to realize he has a team to support him for a reason. Once he comes clean and Caitlin orders him in for testing, it will be a simple fix.

Perhaps Cisco might even come up with a high-calorie formula that tastes better than the one Harrison is currently using for himself. Wouldn’t that be a treat? Though his speed is spotty at best, a tainted, twisted memory of what it once was, Harrison’s abilities grow stronger, more reliable, with every step that Barry takes. As Barry’s connection to the Speedforce grows exponentially stronger by the day, so too does Harrison’s.

Barry’s phone vibrates, and Harrison listens unabashedly to the one-sided conversation: “Hey, Joe, everything all right?” A pause, then, “I’m really close by. I’ll be right there!”

Pressing the end button with the pad of his thumb and tucking the phone away, Barry smiles at them. His hair is a ruffled mess, his eyes are bright, and the smile on his lips is chagrined. At the sight of that smile, Harrison is struck with the strangest urge to physically touch the young man and silently reassure him that presently, there’s nothing to be concerned about. It’s a very strange urge, and he ignores it completely.

“My day job beckons,” Barry says. He hesitates, then asks, “Dr. Wells? Would it be possible. I mean, could I come and talk to you after work? I need. Well, some advice, I guess?”

Pleased that Barry is learning to seek him out, Harrison nods, “Of course, Mr. Allen. I’ll see you then.”

The young man nods once, gratefully, and disappears in a flash.

Still wearing the costume, actually. The man known as Harrison Wells shakes his head and smiles wryly for Cisco’s benefit. “When do you think he'll realize he didn't take his clothes?”

***

Later that day, Barry returns to S.T.A.R. Labs, and Caitlin Snow picks up yelling at him as though he never left. There is some talk of the robbery which took place at Simon Stagg’s award ceremony, which makes the man known as Harrison Wells suppress a laugh because really? It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving target. Actually, in all likelihood, he supposes that’s probably the case. Simon Stagg is the sort of man whose enemies far outnumber his friends.

“You _lied_ to us!” Caitlin says, fury in every harsh line of her tiny body. She paces incessantly, abruptly, as she speaks. “How could you not tell us you’re experiencing dizzy spells? We’re your _doctors_! We need to know these things!”

“I–” Barry tries to speak, shifting uncomfortably where he is perched on the infirmary’s sickbed, his legs dangling over the edge. Dr. Snow swivels her head around, fixing him with a piercing, fervent gaze.

She cuts him off swiftly. “No! No, you don’t get a choice in this, Barry Allen! God knows what’s going on inside your body. Your cells are in a constant state of flux. You could be experiencing cardiopulmonary failure. Or. Or. A transient ischemic attack!”

Barry looks at Harrison, his expression so helplessly lost that Harrison has to chuckle. “Mini-stroke,” he explains. “Probably not.”

Caitlin finally stops her angry pacing, coming to a halt directly in front of where Barry sits. She takes both of his hands in her own and says, in a voice that brokers no argument, “You of all people should know that in science, we share. We do _not_ keep secrets.”

Unable to do anything else in the face of Dr. Snow’s righteous fury, Barry swallows once. Then, cautiously, he nods his agreement. “Okay,” he says. “I’m very, very sorry. I won’t. It won’t happen again.”

Caitlin gives him a hard look, then drops Barry’s hands and moves off to the other room. Cisco comes up beside where Barry sits and gives a low, impressed whistle. “Wow. I haven’t seen anyone make her that angry since Ronnie.”

“Ronnie was…” Barry glances between Cisco’s face and Harrison’s. Harrison carefully adopts an appropriate expression, his lips thinning to a flat line. “...Caitlin's fiancé? The one that died the night of the accelerator explosion?”

Cisco’s expression is a muted mix of sorrow and guilt. Apparently the boy still feels the death of the vibrant Ronnie Raymond is his fault. “Yeah,” he says, miserably.

“He is missed,” the man known as Harrison Wells adds quietly. He allows the silent mourning to exist only for a moment before he cuts it off, sweeping the lingering remnants up and packing them neatly away. “Now,” he says in a more upbeat tone of voice, “Let's figure out why this is happening to you.”

Cisco is quick to show off his latest creation – an industrial strength treadmill that should keep up with the Flash’s super-speed. As Barry takes off, his movements combined with the treadmill creating a curious, blurry image that is comprised of hundreds of afterimages – speed mirages – Caitlin begins to scan his numbers. “Heart rate, blood pressure, nerve conduction,” she murmurs. “All normal.”

“Well,” the man known as Harrison Wells smiles faintly. “For Barry, at any rate.”

“Brainwave function within standard limits,” she continues, and Harrison notices her rising confusion, not seeing anything out of place, unable to pinpoint what is causing Barry’s fainting spells.

Cisco, oblivious to Caitlin’s minor crisis, hoots out a laugh, throwing his hands in the air as he celebrates the success of his design. “Check it! I told you the treadmill could take it!”

Feeling a moment of fond exasperation for the pair of them, the man known as Harrison Wells quietly points out, “Caitlin. Look at his glucose levels.”

“Oh my God!” Caitlin exclaims. “It was so – obvious!”

Harrison reaches for the com-link. He presses the button and says, “Barry, we think we know why you keep–” The young man is flung bodily off the treadmill, a limp ragdoll that crashes into the boxes of padding Cisco had the foresight to stack up behind the machine, just in case. Feeling another wave of fond exasperation, this time for Barry, Harrison continues wryly, “–passing out.”

***

Perhaps an hour passes. Barry is stretched out on the bed in the infirmary, a few ineffectual bandages wrapped around the now-healed abrasions he sustained from being flung bodily from Cisco’s treadmill. There is some tubing that connects the I.V. in his arm to the last bag of intravenous sugar solution, and the color has finally returned to his cheeks. 

Cisco is busy in the lab, running numbers and calculations. Caitlin has joined him as they discuss what other nutritious aspects should be included in what they have tentatively labeled “Barry Bars.” The way they throw themselves into their work, and how quickly they have dedicated their gifts to assisting the Flash as technical and medical support? It warms him to the core. The man known as Harrison Wells is quite – pleased. His planning in this matter has concluded well within the perimeters he has set.

Without warning, Barry groans, immediately struggling to sit up. “Did I? I passed out again?”

Harrison maneuvers his wheelchair to sit by Barry’s bedside. “Total metabolic failure,” he replies cheerfully. “Brought on by hypoglycemia.”

“I’m not–” Barry’s brow furrows. “I’m not _eating_ enough?” He glances down at the needle in his arm, and smiles lopsidedly at where Harrison sits. “So, an I.V. bag and I’m good to go?”

Harrison smirks, pointing a finger to the overcrowded stand, cluttered with dozens of spent bags. “Try forty,” he replies.

“Jesus.” Barry looks completely perplexed.

“We’re going to need to fashion you a new diet, based on the extreme changes to your metabolism. Cisco and Caitlin are currently in the lab seeing what they can come up with. They’re both very bright and work extremely well under pressure, so I’m sure we’ll have a solution for you in the next few days. In the mean time,” Harrison fixes Barry with a half-serious, yet very stern look. “Be sure that you refuel your body regularly, _especially_ after you’ve used your abilities. Clear?”

“Yes, Dr. Wells,” Barry replies by rote, exasperated.

“I do believe you have permission to use my first name, Barry,” the man known as Harrison Wells counters with a small smile.

“Yes, Harrison,” Barry reiterates, pleasantly embarrassed if the faint blush on his cheeks is any indication.

“Now,” Harrison says, “Since we have a bit of time while you finish the last of that I.V. bag, earlier you said you wanted to speak with me?”

Before Barry can respond, his phone buzzes. In a split second, he has the device out and to his ear. Harrison is close enough to hear Joe West’s voice on the other end of the line: “Barry,” the older man says, his voice full of concern, “I’ve been looking for you. You’re not at your lab. Is everything okay?”

Barry replies easily, “Everything’s fine, Joe. You remember earlier, at the robbery at Stagg’s event? When Iris told you I fainted? I wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything residual from my time in the coma, so I actually came to S.T.A.R. Labs to get checked out.”

The relief in West’s voice is audible, even if quiet words themselves are nearly indistinct. “I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself, son. So, what’s going on? What did they say?”

Barry grins, “Apparently it’s my glucose levels; I’m not eating enough. Weird, I know, right?” West mumbles something in reply, and Barry continues, “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Joe. I’ll see you when I get home tonight. Bye.”

As the young man ends the phone call, tucking the device back into his pocket, he looks at where Harrison sits closely beside him. “Sorry about that,” he says. “That’s actually. Well, Joe’s part of the reason I wanted to talk to you. I don’t. I mean, I’m not sure what to do.”

Harrison nods encouragingly and prods, “How so?”

Barry’s lips twist unhappily. “Well, he saw everything that happened that night, right? Clyde Mardon, back from the dead with magical weather powers. The supersonic nut job in the red suit who unraveled a tornado. And Mardon got shot – but seeing as how he’s basically stuck in the basement here, Joe doesn’t know if Mardon is alive or dead.”

Harrsion nods at Barry’s assessment of the situation. “And you want to tell him?” he asks, foreseeing where the young man is going with this line of thought. “About Mardon? About your abilities?”

Barry nods, then explains, “There’s actually a pending investigation into what happened at the farm that night, because Joe’s report says that he thinks he shot Mardon. There’s a bullet missing from his gun that proves something happened, and since all detectives and officers are required to keep a log, it’s not like the captain can just ignore it. It’s just.” Barry frowns, the frustration he’s feeling written clearly on his very expressive face. “Joe can’t _prove_ anything happened that night – the tornado? Mardon being alive? The missing bullet? – and I think it’s driving him a little crazy. I want. Well, I want to let him in on who I am. On what I can do. Only, I don’t. I don’t know if it’s a good idea or not, and I just. I wanted to ask your opinion.”

How very far they’ve come in such a short period of time, Harrison muses, if Barry is asking him advice regarding his pseudo-parent, Joe West. To have such concrete evidence that Barry trusts him? There will be other metahumans, other crises beyond this first. And each and every one, he knows, has the potential to bind Barry Allen even closer to him.

 _Yes_ , he thinks, satisfaction bubbling in his chest. It’s quite honestly thrilling.

Harrison ponders the young man’s dilemma for a moment, then replies carefully, “I cannot make your decisions for you, Barry. I can only offer you two pieces of advice. The first is that what you are choosing to do – being a superhero, helping people – will earn you just as many enemies as it does friends. The fewer people who know who you really are? The safer it will be, not just for you, but also for them.”

Barry nods, his eyes locked on Harrison’s face, hanging on every word.

A second thrill shoots through the man known as Harrison Wells, deeper, stronger than the first. That unabashed look on Barry’s face? The way the young man treats the words that Harrison speaks as gospel? It feels like – addiction. _Dangerous._ There is a part of his mind – the part where Eobard Thawne is always watching – which murmurs quietly. It recognizes this feeling, akin to a drug or even the Speedforce, for what it is. _Dangerous_.

“The second thing I know?” Harrison continues, allowing no trace of his internal turmoil to appear on his face. “Joe West is an excellent detective. He’s going to figure out that something different is going on with you sometime soon, if he hasn’t already. While he may not automatically connect you to the man in the red suit, he _is_ going to keep looking until he gets to the bottom of whatever is impacting your life.”

Barry nods again, conceding to the logic of the statement. Then he says, perplexed, “That’s... two very conflicting pieces of advice, Dr. Wells.”

“Harrison,” the man known as Harrison Wells corrects gently. “And it’s the best I can offer you. What can I say? I’ve been told I’m a rather complicated man.”

***


	11. [2/3] Episode 2: The Boy Who Cried Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man known as Harrison Wells has an important chat with Joe West. Team Flash learns more about Danton Black, the metaflavor of the week. Also, the more Barry discovers about the mystery shooter, the less he actually knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/12/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).  
> 05/21/17: Minor revisions, deleted author's notes, added chapter summary.

***

Before Barry heads out for the night, the man known as Harrison Wells presses a sealed sample bag into his hand. It contains the bullet that Caitlin pulled from Clyde Mardon’s shoulder.

Barry blinks, holding the bag up to the light as he examines its contents.

“Perhaps you might see if you can sneak that through the system at the station?” Harrison suggests with a meaningful look. “If nothing else, checking the striations should at least tell us if your mystery shooter has been up to anything else recently.”

With a nod of understanding, Barry readily agrees. “Sure. I have to check a couple of bullets that were collected earlier today from Simon Stagg’s award ceremony. I’ll be running those through in the morning.” After a moment of hesitation, he adds, “Were you able to find out anything else? About the shooter, I mean?”

Harrison shakes his head, his mouth twisting into a perplexed half-frown. He sighs. “No. Unfortunately even with the security footage I pulled from the farm, I wasn’t able to find anything new. All I can confirm is that an unknown person took the shot, and when Joe West pulled the trigger in your defense, his bullet missed Mardon entirely.” He pauses, then adds carefully, “If there’s an inquisition going on, perhaps Detective West might start by searching the farm for his missing bullet? It should still be there. Also, perhaps a suggestion that he pull the security feeds in the area wouldn’t go amiss? It certainly wouldn’t hurt his case.”

“Thank you,” Barry breathes out, his relief visible as the tension in his shoulders abruptly dissipates. “That’s. I mean, I’ll talk to him about it tonight. Joe loves being a detective, and even if Captain Singh trusts him completely, if there was an extended inquiry. Well, it could have been trouble.”

“Of course, Barry,” Harrison replies genially. 

With another look of extreme gratitude, Barry says, “Goodnight, Dr. We–” He stops, then grins, embarrassed, bashful. “I mean. Um. Goodnight, Harrison.” He is gone in a flash.

Alone in the infirmary, the man known as Harrison Wells indulges. “Goodnight,” he replies to the empty room. “Barry,” he continues after a beat. He savors the welcome taste of the word, rolls it with appreciation on his tongue like he would a sip of vintage wine, or the blood from a fine, rare steak.

He smiles sharply, all teeth. It is not a nice smile.

***

The next day is quite eventful, as Barry reports that Simon Stagg’s head of security was murdered in the night, and reveals that the skin cells collected from the alleged killer are, in fact, naïve, stem cells – cells with the ability to replicate, becoming anything the body needs; cells which can only be found in babies.

 _Another impossible criminal_ , Harrison muses.

Caitlin is instantly intrigued by these cells, and it’s clear from the light of scientific curiosity that shines brightly in her eyes that she wants nothing more than to acquire a sample to examine. Her desire is soon made a reality, as Barry fights – and loses to – their unknown metahuman who attacks at a warehouse at Stagg Industries.

Barry groans from his seat in the infirmary as Caitlin clinically cleans one of the more visible wounds on his face. “Your abrasions are already rapidly healing,” she comments idly, liberally armed with peroxide and sterile swabs. 

Barry groans again. His body is tense, agitated. “Yeah,” he grumbles. “I got my ass handed to me.”

From across the room Cisco raises his voice, clearly displeased, and adds, “You got blood on my suit.”

Barry replies sarcastically, “Yeah? Well, I think some of it belongs to him. Another not-so-friendly metahuman.”

Caitlin looks to Cisco and demands, “Oh! Swab it. All of it. I want samples!”

“Right,” Barry says, rolling his eyes. “Because that’s what’s important here. Do we know anything about who this guy actually is?”

“Danton Black.” Harrison wheels his chair forward, tapping a few keys to bring up the metahuman’s photo and basic profile on the overhead screen. “Thanks to the security footage from Stagg’s warehouse, running a cross-reference between our mystery meta and the rather long list of potential suspects Stagg provided was simple. He's a bio-geneticist who specializes in therapeutic cloning – growing new organs to replace failing ones.”

Caitlin pipes up helpfully, “Apparently Stagg stole his research and then fired him.”

Barry blinks, and Harrison can see the pieces falling into place in his head. Already the effect of the lightning on the way his brain operates is becoming more readily apparent. Synapses firing at rapid speeds, making connections far more quickly than the average mind. “I saw Black create duplicates from his own body,” the young man says slowly.

“That's pretty ironic,” Cisco says in a lighter tone of voice, apparently having forgiven Barry for the blood on his suit. “The guy specialized in cloning and now he can make xeroxes of himself.”

Harrison smiles and elaborates, “If he was experimenting on himself when he was exposed to the dark matter wave released by the particle accelerator explosion–”

“–meet Captain Clone!” Cisco interjects, the potential of naming a new superhero – or, Harrison supposes, super _villain_ as the case may be – outweighing the marginal amount of tact he usually exhibits. At the unamused look that Barry sends him, Cisco rubs his hand on the back of his neck and grumbles, “Don't worry. I'll come up with something cooler.”

Actually, Harrison doesn’t find that look on Barry’s face promising in any way. He ponders the problem for a moment, then decides the easiest way to find out what’s on the young man’s mind is simply to ask. To Caitlin he says, “Dr. Snow, now that Barry is mostly healed, perhaps you’d like to take a look at those blood samples Cisco collected?”

Caitlin’s eyes instantly light up. “Oh! You’re right, Dr. Wells. The more we know, the better we can help Barry stop Black! I’ll just–” she snatches up the samples with her eager hands “–be in the lab.” She sweeps out of the room without looking back.

Cisco glances at Barry, and seems to pick up whatever vibe the young man is giving off far more readily than Caitlin would have. He excuses himself with a rather unsubtle, “I’ll be. Um. There’s something I should be doing. Like, right now.” He darts out the door.

As the two young scientists leave, Harrison notes the mounting tension in Barry’s shoulders loosening marginally. Following his earlier suspicion, he rolls his chair to sit directly in front of Barry. Fixing the young man with carefully measured look – equal parts concern and caring, he’s found, is the most effective mix – he asks, “Are you all right, Barry? You seem. Well, far more agitated over this setback than I might have originally suspected.”

Barry bites his lip. “Setback,” he repeats, scoffing. “That’s not. What made me think I could do this? I couldn’t even fight one metahuman, much less six.” Under his breath he adds unhappily, “Joe was right.”

Harrison’s keen hearing easily picks up the muttered words, his mind swiftly sorting them into context. “I take it from the expression on your face you told Detective West about your abilities?” he questions, watching the play of emotions on Barry’s face – resentment, frustration, disappointment. Really, it’s a good thing the Flash wears a mask, Harrison muses.

“Yeah,” Barry replies in a small voice.

“And I take it that conversation didn’t... go very well?”

“Understatement,” Barry says. “Blowout fight. I just. If the guy who practically raised me doesn’t think I can do this... how am I supposed to argue that? He’s right. You both are.” Barry’s eyes are downcast, his expression miserable. “I’m not a hero. I’m just some guy who was struck by lightning.”

***

To find Detective West, the man known as Harrison Wells starts his search in the most logical place: Central City Police Department. To be honest, it’s not particularly difficult to locate Barry’s surrogate father. The man is standing in the center of the precinct’s foyer, futilely attempting to convince Simon Stagg to enter protective custody.

 _Irritating_ , Harrison thinks, listening to Stagg’s overconfident reply that his security is more than a match for Danton Black.

While he realizes the necessity of dealing with Joe West, the good detective has never particularly liked him. Harrison can respect that, if only because it shows that West’s basic instincts are far more finely honed than most others in this pathetic century. Keeping his interactions with West as limited as possible has been the wisest course of action thus far. 

Still, the man known as Harrison Wells has never shied away from difficulty. If he must guide Detective West and Barry through this little crisis, holding both of their hands as he would that of a lost child, so be it. Barry Allen has made the greatest advances in his speed in defense of those he cares about. The shortest route to the endgame that Harrison has planned is dependent on the Flash, on his speed. To get better, to be faster, it is vital that Barry continue to play at being a hero. Detective West isn’t going to ruin that because of his overprotective nature, no matter how well intentioned his thoughts may be.

“I hope Black comes looking for trouble,” Simon Stagg boasts, petty words from the lips of a petty man. “Because he’ll find plenty.”

Harrison applauds, drawing the attention of both Stagg and Detective West. “Oh, spoken like a true philanthropist!” he says. “Or is it humanitarian? Ah, I’m sorry.” He fixes the businessman with a nasty smile. “I can never remember which one you’re pretending to be, Simon.”

“Harrison,” Stagg replies. He holds out a hand as the elevator dings and he moves to leave. “Don't get up.”

“Ha!” Harrison can appreciate how deeply that comment might have cut, if he’d actually been trapped in this wheelchair. As it is, he decides, he will indulge in the very near future. He visualizes taking a knife and sliding it into the older man’s chest like he is little more than a sack of raw meat. He pictures the blood that will stain his hands, and the look of confusion on Stagg’s face as it gives way to excruciating pain and helpless horror. 

“Another fan of yours, Dr. Wells?” Joe West asks.

There will be blood, Harrison decides, very soon. The curl of anticipation in his stomach tightens. Though it will not belong to the Flash, it will be – satisfying. With that decision, he tucks this poisonous line of thought away and fixes West with a firm look.

“Can we talk, Detective?” Harrison asks.

A moment later, he finds himself in Joe West’s office. The good detective perches on the corner of his desk and proves he can cut to the heart of the matter as well as any competitor Harrison has faced. “Did you know?” West asks, then continues without waiting for a response. He clarifies, “When Barry was first in his coma and you came to the hospital – you asked me if you could take him to S.T.A.R. Labs. Did you know what he could do?”

Unable to do little more than laugh, because West is indeed an excellent opponent, Harrison finally confirms, “I had my suspicions.”

“I know many things, Detective,” Harrison continues, giving the man a measured look. “For example, I know that last night, Barry told you about his abilities, and instead of supporting him in the path he has chosen for himself, you tore him down. Ah–” he holds up a hand when it appears that West is planning to interrupt, his face flushed with anger. “Let me say my piece, if you will. Barry has a gift, Detective. A gift that he has chosen to help people with. And I believe he gets that desire from having grown up watching _you_.”

West settles back, clearly not having made the connection that his surrogate son might be doing this, in part, because of his own example.

Harrison nods. “Now, today, Detective West? Barry was beaten, very soundly. This setback? I can guarantee that it happened because last night when you two fought, you planted in him the seeds of doubt. After all, if the man who raised him doesn’t believe him capable of greatness, how can he believe in himself?”

“Of course I believe in Barry,” Joe says quietly. “But I need him to be _safe_.”

“You can’t protect him forever, Detective,” Harrison replies. “There are – others. Metahumans. People who have been affected by the explosion of the particle accelerator, just as Barry was affected that night. And yes, that’s my mess to clean up. But I can’t do it alone, and Barry? The path he has chosen may be dangerous, but I know that it isn’t nearly as dangerous as the doubt he feels, the doubt he will continue to feel for as long as he thinks you don’t have faith in him.”

***

When Barry swings by S.T.A.R. Labs the next day, there is a lightness to his step, a tiny bounce previously unseen. The man known as Harrison Wells is pleased to see such swift results from his talk with Detective West, but makes no mention of it. He does take notice of the sidelong look the young man gives him, and cannot help but wonder how much of their “talk” West revealed when he presented Barry with his turnabout thinking. In the end, it doesn’t matter; it isn’t a conversation that will hurt his standing with young man in the least.

“Dr. We – um – Harrison,” Barry says, lashes sweeping down over his eyes in an expression Harrison might very well call demure. “I just wanted to talk to you about the results from Clyde Mardon’s bullet.”

“Oh?” Harrison says, raising a brow.

“Well, first off, the gun that fired that bullet? It’s actually in the system. Not because it was used in a crime, but because it was registered to a police officer on the force almost twenty years ago. Officer, um...” Barry closes his eyes, clearly struggling to remember the name. “Dabrowski? That’s it. Officer Dabrowski.”

“So our mystery shooter is an elderly police officer?” Harrison asks, tilting his head to the side.

“Not quite,” Barry replies. “Officer Dabrowski died seventeen years ago. Apparently his son pawned the gun for cash, and the pawnshop that bought it reported it stolen–” He pauses. “That was almost three years ago.”

“Huh,” Harrison says, frowning. “That’s rather unexpected. Also, inconvenient. No real way to follow up on that investigation after such a long stretch of time, I suppose?”

“Not unless you have a time machine hidden somewhere in S.T.A.R. Labs,” Barry teases with a grin. He continues blithely, and Harrison has to swallow a bark of hysterical laughter. “But at least we know a little more about the gun itself. It’s a Smith and Wesson, K-Frame, model number 10. It’s a pretty standard issue police sidearm – a six chamber revolver. A few of the older guys on the force still carry them.”

“There is that,” Harrison says with a smile, his heart still pounding from Barry’s unexpectedly perfect comment. “Thank you for checking in on it, even if your investigation didn’t pan out.”

Barry opens his mouth to respond when Caitlin’s scream cuts through the air, loud, abrupt. Barry is gone in an instant, chasing the sound, and Harrison is forced to follow at a much more sedate pace, steering his wheelchair with practiced ease around the consoles and down the corridor to the laboratory.

When he arrives, he is amused to see Barry poking at what appears to be a fully-evolved clone of Danton Black. Caitlin bites her lip and says, “Sorry! Sorry! I just. Well, I didn’t expect that the process was going to happen so – so _rapidly_. He was literally a couple of stem cells about a minute ago.”

Harrison raises a brow. “And he replicates with clothing. Do I even want to ask about the science behind that?”

Cisco strides up beside him, crunching on a lollipop. “I actually think that the clothing becomes part of his genetic make-up during Black’s process of copying himself. Working theory, anyway.” In his hand, he carries what appears to be a pair of plastic-wrapped granola bars.

Caitlin explains, “So, I grew him, obviously. I isolated a sample of Black’s blood from the samples Cisco took earlier. I wanted to see if I could trigger the vitro cultivation process – to see how Black multiplies? – and when I exposed the target cells to a protein gel, they began rapid replication.” She points to where Danton’s clone stands, immobile. “Into that.”

Cisco places the granola bars on a countertop and grabs a pad. He swiftly and efficiently begins to record the clone’s vitals, speaking his findings aloud for the benefit of the rest of the room. “Everything appears normal. Temperature, blood pressure, pulse. All within normal perimeters.”

“Why isn’t he moving?” Barry asks. Harrison has to smile faintly, because while the question might be the most obvious one in the room, it’s likely also the most important.

“I’d suggest a brain scan to confirm,” Harrison says, “But my guess? His blood’s pumping and he’s breathing, so involuntary motor functions are active, but likely nothing else. He’s out of range.”

“Oh!” Cisco says, gesturing wildly with his pad. “That makes sense! Black, the original Black, sends the signals. His clones act as receivers, following orders, almost like a hive mind. Which means–”

Caitlin swiftly intercepts Cisco’s line of thought and continues seamlessly, “–without the prime, the rest of the clones are just empty shells!”

Harrison nods, silently agreeing with their logic. He decides to take that theory a step further and adds, “Perhaps Black suffers from the same sort of limitations that you do, Barry. For as amazing as your abilities are, they are not without their drawbacks. Exercising control of those clones must be physically taxing for the original Danton Black. The more clones he creates, the thinner his control is spread.”

Barry blinks, “So I should look for the one who’s... what? Tired?”

“Or showing any signs of physical fatigue,” Caitlin agrees. “That makes sense.”

“Before I forget, here!” Cisco grabs the granola bars from the counter and darts forward, pressing them into Barry’s hands. “I’m calling them Barry Bars. Kind of like Scooby Snacks? Only, you know, each one has the caloric content of a Thanksgiving dinner.” Cisco’s eyes narrow as he stresses, “ _Full_ dinner, dude. Not like a single plate, I’m talking about everything on the table, okay?”

“Thanks, Cisco,” Barry says with a laugh. “If I’m going after Black, I guess I should make sure to keep my strength up, huh?” Then, remembering that Black’s clone is still in the room, he adds, “Oh. Um. Should we maybe stick this thing in the Pipeline for the time being? Y’know, just in case?”

***


	12. [3/3] Episode 2: Humpty-Dumpty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with Danton Black has some unexpected results. The man known as Harrison Wells handles Simon Stagg, and Cisco reveals that someone’s been poking around S.T.A.R. Labs mainframe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/12/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).  
> 05/21/17: Minor revisions, deleted author's notes, added chapter summary.

***

Having secured Black’s brain-dead clone in their makeshift Pipeline prison, Cisco goes to check the police radio for any mention of the wayward metahuman. Caitlin’s fingers fly over her keyboard as she quickly re-tasks S.T.A.R. Labs' satellite to suit their current needs, looking for any areas of rapid increases of body heat, clusters that appear spontaneously. Though the man known as Harrison Wells recognizes that Danton Black will attack wherever Simon Stagg is holed up for the night, he lets the team practice their capabilities without comment. Better to hone these drills against a meta whom Harrison is sure will end up in a particular place, rather than practice them on some future meta whose behavior isn’t nearly so predictable.

Barry makes a face at Cisco as he bites into the Barry Bar. “Dude, why does this taste like licorice?”

“Anise!” Cisco replies cheerfully, looking up from where he’s fiddling with his headset. “It was sort of short notice for flavor, and it’s one of the few extracts that can conceal just about any other taste. Plus, y’know, licorice is _delicious_.”

Barry frowns at the bar and takes another hesitant bite. “Except for that fact that I hate it?”

“Who doesn’t like licorice?” Caitlin calls out from across the room.

“Barry,” Cisco replies with a frown. “Because apparently he’s a monster.”

The young man in question makes a face and takes another bite, a testament to how hungry he must be if that expression of disgust is any indication of how little he likes the taste. Harrison himself is impartial to licorice; he feels the slightest sting of disappointment, as he knows that Cisco is capable of creating so much better.

“Heads up,” Joe West says abruptly from where he has appeared in the doorway. Caitlin and Cisco both look up, startled. West continues, “Black is going to attack SS Industries head office. Probably tonight.”

Barry exclaims, “Joe! What are you doing here?”

“I was in the area,” West replies, stepping through the door and moving to stand by Barry’s side. He gives the young man a half-armed hug before nodding a greeting to the rest of them. “When I couldn’t find you in your lab, I thought you might be here. I wanted to remind you to be careful out there today.”

Barry beams with the genuine embarrassed pleasure of someone who has long since gotten used to suffering the attention of an overprotective parent. “Oh! Um. I’ll be okay? The team. They – um – they had some theories on how to fight Black.”

Harrison moves his chair forward, drawing West’s attention. “So, you think he’ll attack Stagg’s main office tonight?” he reiterates for the benefit of the others. It’s obvious, really.

“Yeah,” West replies. He gives Harrison a measuring look, but otherwise makes no comment. It seems the good detective will play nice for the time being. “He’s escalated over the last few days – first, robbing Stagg’s award ceremony, then killing Stagg’s head of security. The next step? Going after Stagg directly, and since the man is holed up in his main office, that’s where you’ll find Danton Black and all of his – many – buddies headed.”

Barry nods once, decisively. “Then that’s where I’m going. Caitlin? Cisco? If you guys could keep an ear out for any sign of Black, I’d appreciate it, but I’m going to head over to SS Industries and see if I can set up an ambush for him.”

The young man squeezes Joe West’s shoulder once reassuringly, and before he flashes out of the building, he glances over his shoulder to meet Harrison’s eyes. Barry smiles warmly, and though he speaks to all of them, it feels as though the words are mainly for Harrison’s benefit. “I’ll be back before you know it. See you soon!”

As Barry disappears, the man known as Harrison Wells can’t help but smile faintly. Really, their relationship is coming along quite nicely. Then again, the look that Joe West is leveling at him – hellfire and brimstone – says that perhaps their relationship is coming along a bit too well. Though Barry’s friendly comments are fairly innocuous, sometime in the future Joe West is going to sit him down for another conversation – one which Harrison imagines he won’t enjoy in the least.

***

The fight is a taxing one for Barry. Huddled around the com-link, they all listen as the young man saves Simon Stagg’s life, then engages the enemy in conversation, trying to understand his drive, his motivation.

“I know Stagg stole your research,” Barry grunts, and it’s unclear just how many Blacks he is attempting to fight. “But that doesn't give you the right to murder!”

There is some scuffling, and Black yells out, “You think this is about my job? This is about Elizabeth! She was my wife!” More scuffling, and Black’s voice is a keen mix of rage and sadness as he howls, “She had a degenerative coronary disease. She'd been on the transplant list for years, but time was running out. If I couldn't get her a new heart–”

“You were going to grow her one,” Barry says softly, empathy and understanding dawning.

“I was so close,” Black hisses. “Until Stagg stole my research. For _money_. And me?” Harrison doesn’t know if the metahuman is in tears or not, but it sounds like a near thing. “I got to bury my best friend.”

More scuffling. Some yelling. A few muted groans and grunts. As tenderhearted as Barry Allen is, the man known as Harrison Wells cannot afford for him to lose against this pathetic man, driven only by loss and failure, running on the empty fumes of not having been good enough. He taps the com-link and urges, “Remember, Barry, find the prime!”

“There's too many of them to fight!” Barry replies, clearly having lost his desire to win in light of Danton Black’s emotional reveal. “I can’t–”

“Yes, Barry,” Harrison says, closing his eyes and willing his voice to be calm, sure, and confident. “You can. Isolate the prime.”

“It’s impossible!” Barry gasps.

Joe West leans over, taking the com. Pleased, Harrison allows it. “Nothing’s impossible, kid,” West says warmly. “You taught me that. You can do this, Barry.”

That last bit of encouragement appears to be all that Barry needs. He stutters into the com-link, “It’s over. We won. Black... Black’s dead.”

***

Sitting in the infirmary seems to have become one of Barry Allen’s special pastimes, the man known as Harrison muses. Caitlin has checked him over, determining that the few minor injuries he sustained from the fight are already healing. She’s already headed out for the night, claiming that crime fighting is far more exhausting than science ever was. Cisco is still in the lab, already working on the personal affront Barry offered him by disliking the flavor of the Barry Bars. And Joe West? Headed out for the evening after confirming that Barry is unharmed. “Sounds like there’s a bit of cleanup at Stagg Industries,” he says without much enthusiasm. “Duty calls.”

Now, Barry sits on the infirmary sick bed. He’s rolled it closer to the wall so that he can lean his back against the flat, cool surface. Harrison sits in his wheelchair, nearby but not too close, looking over some data on one of the computer screens.

“I tried to save him,” Barry says suddenly. His gaze is fixed blankly on one of the overhead lights.

Having heard the story of what happened when Barry first returned to S.T.A.R. Labs, Harrison replies mildly, “It doesn't sound like he wanted to be saved.” Seeing as the young man still appears to be rather broken up about it, he continues, “Some people, when they break... they can't be put together again.”

Barry shakes his head. “It’s just. It isn’t fair. Danton Black was a regular guy who loved his wife. Simon Stagg has _everything_ , but he took Black’s research anyway. Black called his wife his best friend... and I can’t even imagine what it would feel like to lose someone that close to me. I just. I wish I could do _more_.”

Harrison smiles faintly and says, “Sometime it takes me a moment to remember how very new all of this must be to you. All great successes come tied with a hundred setbacks, Barry. While you couldn’t save Mr. Black tonight, he’s given you a new scenario to beat. Perhaps, with some practice, you’ll be able to.”

“What do you mean?” Barry asks, clearly failing to follow Harrison’s train of thought.

“You’re the fastest man alive, Barry,” Harrison says gently. “Think for a moment. If something – or someone – falls from the top of a skyscraper, who’s to say you aren’t fast enough to beat gravity?”

Understanding dawns on Barry’s face. “You’re right. You’re. What else is this speed capable of? I haven’t. I mean, I know science. I love science. So why didn’t I realize how much _more_ I can do? Speed is. It’s not _just_ being able to run fast, is it?”

Harrison shakes his head slowly. He is suppressing the urge to grin, because at long last, the young man is starting to get it. A few weeks with this sort of fervor and Barry will likely be fast enough that finally – finally – the man in the yellow suit can come out to play.

“Dr. Wells,” Barry bites his lip, clearly lost in a mental slew of possibilities, of ideas that were previously impossible but now? – turning the problem, examining it from another angle, and suddenly all things are possible. “Harrison. Can you? I mean, will you help me?”

“Help you improve? To get better, get faster?” the man known as Harrison Wells allows himself a small smile. “There’s nothing that would please me more.”

“Dr. Wells!” Cisco calls out from the other room. “Barry! You guys. Um. You need to see this. Like, right now.”

Barry gives him a perplexed look and the pair make their way to the laboratory where Cisco is sitting, staring up at an overhead monitor with a look of complete confusion on his face. 

The Danton Black clone is pound on the walls of the Pipeline cell. The audio is turned low, but he’s screaming, “IT BURNS! IT BURNS! ELIZABETH!”

“Hm.” The man known as Harrison Wells blinks, staring at the screen for a long, hard minute. “I can honestly say... I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I was just running through the usual nightly camera maintenance when I saw him,” Cisco says, eyes glued to the screen. “I scanned through the footage from the last few hours. When Barry was fighting the original, this clone was moving around then as well, but it wasn’t. I mean, he was just walking around the perimeter of the cell, trying to find a door. But when Black died? He crumpled to the ground like a puppet with cut strings. And then, about twenty minutes ago. This.”

“ELIZABETH!” the clone on the screen screams madly.

“That’s.” Barry frowns, pulling out his phone and shooting off a quick text. About two seconds later, his phone vibrates with a reply. Barry’s lips thin and he holds the phone out so both Cisco and Harrison are able to read the messages.

The text is to Joe West. It reads: _What did you do with Danton Black’s clone bodies?_

The reply: _Cremated them. Orders were to get rid of all but the original. Why?_

“IT BURNS,” Black screams.

“Oh, jeez,” Cisco says, horrified. “So whatever connection exists between the original and the clones? I’m guessing there’s some sort of failsafe built in, one that even Black didn’t know about. When he ‘died’ his consciousness was transferred to the next viable body. And as they cremated them, it transferred to the next. And the next. And the next.”

“Horrible doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Barry says. “What do we? I mean. How can I help him?”

Harrison ponders the question for a moment, staring at the newly minted body of Danton Black, fresh out of the box. The man in question is screaming, raging, and clearly has lost quite a bit of the intelligence that made him such a genius bio-engineer. Harrison wonders, full of scientific curiosity, just how many bodies Black burned inside before his consciousness found its way to the one clone that could be considered “safe.”

“Multiplex may be a nut job, but nobody deserves that,” Cisco says, frowning. At the look that Barry gives him, he adds, a little smugly, “Told you I'd come up with a cool name.”

“Go down to the Pipeline. Talk to him. Explain what’s going on, so that he knows he isn’t dead or something equally ridiculous,” Harrison says slowly. “He’ll likely scream and yell the whole time, but the sooner you introduce him to what’s actually going on, the sooner he can adjust to the idea. Bring him something to eat, something to drink. Even if he doesn’t accept them, at least he has them. As far as the long term goes? Dealing with the psychological issues I’m sure his many – deaths? – have left him. Let me think on it tonight.”

“Thanks, Dr. Wells,” Barry smiles, grateful for the direction.

***

That same night, the man known as Harrison Wells visits Simon Stagg Industries. Gaining entrance to the building is a simple matter, and while he is fairly certain that the security feeds record him, he also knows the value of being seen in his wheelchair. 

The elevator ride to Stagg’s office is a short one, and the tiny ding the machine makes instantly alerts Stagg to his presence. “Wells,” the older man says, perturbed. “Who the hell let you in here?” He is sitting at his desk, looking for all the world like no one attempted to take his life this day.

Harrison maneuvers his chair forward. He looks out the window, smiles and comments, “Have you been having a party out there, Simon?”

Stagg snorts, settling back into his chair. “I’m sure you saw it on TV. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? A former employee of mine tried to kill me. Failed, obviously.”

“A former employee,” Harrison replies slowly, as if testing the frigid waters of this statement with a toe. “... with the ability to spontaneously replicate himself. Who faced off against a man who could move at super speeds.”

Instantly, Stagg’s eyes light up. “You’ve seen him too, haven’t you?” he asks eagerly.

“Indeed, I have,” Harrison agrees. There is no point in lying to Simon Stagg about this. It’s why he bothered to come here this night. The least he can do is offer the man a hint of that tantalizing insider information he finds so addictive.

“Extraordinary,” Stagg says, “Simply extraordinary!” He shakes his head. He looks like a child on Christmas day, and the man known as Harrison Wells finds he doesn’t much enjoy that visual, because the only metaphorical present he’d be unwrapping is named Barry Allen. “The power he possesses,” Stagg continues. “It's – it's like the gods of old. It's like Mercury come to Earth.” His pushes away from his desk, a smile finding its way to his face as he struggles to put his feelings into words. “Can you imagine if you could control his power? If you could – if you could harness it? You could change what it means to be human!” Then, abruptly, even slyly, “The man in the red mask is the key, and I'm gonna get him.”

“The man in the red mask,” Harrison muses aloud. “He's called the Flash. Or at least... he will be, one day.” He stands from his wheelchair, towering over Simon Stagg’s smaller form. Such a simple way to gain the upper hand, the difference in their heights changing the playing field between them radically.

“What the hell?” Stagg gasps, and without warning, the knife slides cleanly between his ribs. It is a smooth motion. It is practiced, familiar, even comfortable. _When was the last time I stabbed someone?_ the man known as Harrison Wells wonders idly as he thinks of Nora Allen. _Has it really been so long?_

Then: _What’s the phrase? It’s like – riding a bike._

“Forgive me, Simon,” he says gently, and he pushes the knife in deeper, giving it a little twist. Simon tries to stumble back, to pull away from Harrison and the pain, but Harrison matches each of his steps easily. “I worry that you will think this is personal, and it's not.” Earlier in the week, it might have been, but right now? Right now there is only one thought in Harrison’s mind. “It's just – the man in the red mask? The fastest man alive? – he must be kept _safe_.”

Simon Stagg breathes his last, a pained, wheezing rattle as blood bubbles up on his lips. The man known as Harrison Wells accesses his speed, uses it to clean the room, erase every trace of murder and death, wash the blood from his hands, clean and dispose of the knife. A quick note sent through Stagg’s computer – an unplanned but very understandable vacation of solitude in light of the recent attempt on his life – and he catches Stagg’s body before it hits the ground. He pauses in front of his wheelchair, making sure that the mini-camera he keeps there catches a clear view of Stagg’s sightless eyes. Another moment of speed and the body finds its way into the nearby bay, wrapped in plastic, weighed down, and dumped far enough out that it will never be found.

Harrison sits back in his wheelchair. Perhaps three minutes since the altercation took place have passed. He settles in, arranging his legs carefully into place. He directs his wheelchair back to the elevator.

***

The next day, Harrison frowns at his computer screen. “Cisco?” he calls out. “If you wouldn’t mind, could you shed some light on a certain... abnormality... that I’m seeing?”

“Sure, Dr. Wells,” Cisco says, practically scampering to the side of Harrison’s wheelchair. “What’s up?”

“This,” Harrison replies. He taps a few buttons on his keypad, enlarging the text that has caught his attention. “While I am keenly aware that we keep thorough records of all scientific research that we do here, as well as any other pertinent data that we gather, perhaps you can tell me–” he raises an eyebrow, “–why is it that Barry Allen is still listed as being in a coma? This file is dated for today.”

“Oh.” Cisco blinks. “Oh, oh!” He smacks his forehead, then turns a troubled expression toward Harrison. “I completely forgot. Fuck!”

“Forgot.” Harrison’s voice is deadpan; he can’t even be bothered to tack a question to the end of his statement. “Forgot what, exactly.”

“Um. So, like, a couple of months ago?” Cisco says, biting his lower lip nervously. “When we first transferred Barry from the hospital to S.T.A.R. Labs? There was this. Um. Hacker? Only they aren’t even half as good as I am, so I spotted them pretty much instantly.”

“A... hacker,” Harrison repeats slowly. “A hacker... accessing S.T.A.R. Labs technology? Our research? Our data?” His voice begins to rise with every point listed. “And you _didn’t_ think to mention this to me?”

“Well, no,” Cisco says. “Please don’t be mad. Because the hacker? They weren’t interested in any of our data – which, by the way, I keep on a separate server, completely disconnected from the internet, so there’s no way anyone could access it _anyway_ –” He swallows abruptly, seeing the fury on Harrison’s face hasn’t abated in the slightest. “Um. Point is, this hacker? They were only after one thing.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?” Harrison asks, still furious. He is slowly pulling back that rage,, getting it under control, letting it simmer slowly beneath the surface instead of erupting outward.

“Barry,” Cisco replies without hesitation. As if he doesn’t realize that there is nothing S.T.A.R. Labs has to offer – technology, research, data – that can match even a fraction of Barry Allen’s worth. “Or rather,” he continues, unaware of the danger he has just placed himself in, “Barry’s condition, in regards to the coma.”

“Explain,” Harrison says, his expression still flat.

Cisco continues blithely, “Every night, this hacker runs a program, seeking out whatever reports were generated that day about Barry’s condition. When I realized what they were after, I transferred Barry’s data to our core server, the one that I keep off-line and buried behind about twenty different firewalls. But!” He taps a few keys to bring up several months worth of reports, all virtually identical, save the date and time stamp at the bottom. Barry Allen, they say. Comatose. Condition stable. No change. 

“These reports,” Harrison muses aloud. “They don’t reflect anything of the work we did beyond getting him stabilized. There’s no mention of the tests, the data... nothing.”

“Exactly,” Cisco says. “The real reports? Safe, hidden on our core server. These reports? Totally bogus. I scripted a program to generate a few every day, keeping Barry’s condition stable but inactive. I didn’t want to alert the hacker that I’d noticed them, or that I’d taken measures to protect our information. While it’s highly unlikely they would have been able to get to the real intel, I just figured it was safer if I tricked them into not even making the attempt.”

“A bit genius,” Harrison muses, and Cisco flushes, extremely pleased by the high praise. “That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t come to me when you realized what was happening,” he continues, fixing the boy with a stern look.

“I know, I know,” Cisco groans. “And I am _so_ sorry about that. It completely slipped my mind until you brought it up just now.”

“So,” Harrison lets out a deep, slow breath. “We have an unknown hacker interested in only one thing: Barry Allen’s condition. Whoever this mystery person is, they are unaware that Barry has woken up, thanks to your misleading trail of paperwork. It’s unlikely they have any other way of confirming this because if they did, they would have spotted Barry’s comings and goings from S.T.A.R. Lab in those early days, before he knew about his speed, and likely stopped their attempts to access the information from our server.”

“Although,” Harrison speculates, eyes narrowing, “if they did realize the truth, they would have seen your bogus reports for what they are – a diversionary tactic. By continuing to seek them out, they make us believe that they _don’t_ know about Barry being awake.” Seeing Cisco’s eyes glaze a bit, he amends, “It’s a possibility, though doubtful.”

Cisco nods, then makes a face. “I just don’t understand why anyone would be interested in Barry in the first place? I mean, it’s not like anyone knew he was going to wake up with superpowers. And reports on coma patients? Pretty boring reads.” The boy shrugs, then asks, “Should I. Um. Stop the program? From generating the faux-reports, I mean?”

“Hm.” Harrison ponders the question. Having run through the possible culprits, he decides that despite Cisco’s failure to bring this to his attention, events seem to have worked out better than he could have possibly anticipated. “No, Cisco,” he says. “Keep generating the reports.” At Cisco’s look of confusion, he elaborates, “Whomever it is on the other end of that computer? They’re interested in Barry. And the longer we can keep their attention from him, the safer he will be. If nothing else, if anyone ever begins to suspect that Mr. Allen may be the man in red, these reports will help to throw off that suspicion. Can’t very well be a superhero if you’re laying in bed in a coma.”

“Okay,” Cisco readily agrees. “And. Um. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the man known as Harrison Wells replies with a gentle smile. He lays his hand on Cisco’s shoulder, giving the boy a reassuring squeeze. “Everything seems to have worked out for the best.”

***

Leonard Snart grabs a beer from the hotel’s mini-fridge. He opens it, chucks the lid at the trash can, misses. He then sprawls in the chair at the desk, opening his laptop with his free hand.

He clicks the button to his e-mail. As is the case every night, a new report awaits him. He double-clicks to open it.

Barry Allen, it reads. Comatose. Condition stable. No change. 

Leonard Snart takes a sip of his beer, shuts down his laptop, and stares out the window toward S.T.A.R. Labs. He drinks without tasting. He looks without seeing. He wonders without hoping.

***


	13. [1/1] Interlude: The Dream Walker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spreading across Central City, dancing through time and piercing the distance, there are men and women and monsters. And some nights? Some nights, Cisco Ramon dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 05/21/17: Minor revisions, deleted author's notes, added chapter summary.

***

Some nights, Cisco Ramon dreams.

_“What’s up, Dr. Wells?” he calls out, only a room away. He peeks his head around the door and brightens immediately. “Oh! Hey, Barry! I didn’t know you’d be stopping by today.” He crosses the room to shake Barry’s hand._

He dreams of lightning, of fire, of ice. He dreams of elements so raw, so pure, that they burn his veins from the inside out. Lightning in Barry’s eyes – racing, crackling, arcing – and a blur of red, jetting through the streets of Central City, a neon bolt of energy and speed. There – a breath of fire, uncontrollable, unforgiving – and burning, an inferno of rage, of heat. There – a stream of ice, frozen, angry – so cold, unforgiving, the end of all things.

_“Don’t worry about it,” Dr. Wells tells him, smiling. The older man lays a hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Everything seems to have worked out for the best.”_

He dreams of a chessboard, giant squares of black and white, a checkered pattern that moves like the ocean, surface constantly shifting, changing, but always overlaid with a secondary image which also twists and shifts. There are pieces on this board, and a hand that moves them, and he doesn’t know who they are or how this game is played, and he is afraid. 

Some nights, Cisco Ramon dreams.

There is a girl. She is beautiful. She is broken and angry and scared, but so too is she beautiful. She makes his heart beat faster. She touches him and his skin glows like purple, neon fire, and the world explodes in a shower of light and she is so beautiful.

There is a man. He is ugly. His prime is past date, his hair is white, and he is full of hate and anger and fear. There is so much fear in him. Fear of the unknown, fear of the future, and he is just smart enough to be dangerous. His medals line his shoulder like little toy soldiers, and they are liars, each and every one, because he stole them from the hands of the dead to make them his own. He stands on corpses piled high like he cannot smell them decompose and he is so very, very ugly.

There is a monster. He is death and smoke and poison, and he feels like God. He moves through the air, an unseen disease, and he thinks of the people who killed him and decides that if he is God, he will be vengeful. There are three he knows. Three to punish. Three to kill. And if there are more – others that stumble into his path? – then they will die choking in agony, because he is a monster and monsters are not kind.

There is a girl. She is in love. She disappears like smoke and mirrors and she will find the man of her dreams and save him, save him like he once saved her. _Please, please_ , she thinks. _I’ll save you_ , she thinks. _So love me_ , she thinks, _like I love you_.

There is a man. He is full of hate. He calls upon the fury of the gods and summons a storm of ice and rain. _My brother_ , he thinks. _My baby brother who is stupid and thoughtless and stubborn, but he is_ mine. _I raised him and you took him from me_ , he thinks, and he turns his thoughts to Central City. _I will take what you love most_ , he thinks. _I will destroy your heart like you killed mine_.

There is a monster. He lives in the sewers. He dreams of days when things were simple and he misses them, those days when the bars of his cage were clear and easily defined. He misses the days when the important things were bowls of food and fresh water. He misses the days when it was just an instinct of trust, the feeling of love, and not a word – father. He misses those simple days, but he is proud and he will make them pay because he is a monster and this is what monsters do.

There is a girl. She is so very normal, but sometimes she dreams of flying like a bird. She does not – cannot – know that even now, she is hunted like an animal and soon, very soon, she will die, blood on her lips, arms encircling her like she is the most precious creature in this world but it will be too late.

There is a man. He steals a face. He is so free because there is someone else he’d rather be and so he takes their skin and wears it like a suit and it’s better this way. It’s better to be someone else because no one likes him as he is, no one will ever like him for who he is and now he can be anyone else. Now he can be everyone else. It’s better this way.

There is a monster. He hates himself. He hates himself. He hates himself. He thinks only of his friends. He thinks of the electricity that courses through him like blood. He thinks only of his friends and how he killed them, killed them both – _oh, God, they’re dead, I’m sorry_ – he is a monster and he hates himself. He hates himself. He hates himself.

There is a girl. She is young but not naive. She is confident but not a fool. She is sorry but not so sorry that she won’t take the opportunities that are presented to her just like her big brother taught her. And so she dials up an old friend and says, “Hey, Mick? I have a favor–”

There is a man. He sits beneath a bridge but he does not shiver. Beside him another homeless man sits, worn winter coat wrapped tight around him to protect him from the cold; in his hands, he holds half a sandwich. He extends it to the first man, the man whose hair is long and dirty, whose clothes are torn and ragged, who does not shiver in this unforgiving weather – the man who takes it and eats it and bursts into flames without ever meaning to.

There is a monster. He is the very best sort of monster, and the very worst. His eyes glow red and his yellow suit blurs with anticipation, excitement. He is so smart and so fierce and his anger is great and terrible. It fills him to the brim and sustains him for years when nothing else can. He is so proud, and he will not fall, and sometimes he wonders if this is really what he wants, but he ignores that voice because he has spent so long on this fight that he cannot, he will not, he refuses to _lose_.

There are others. There are flashes of images so quick that even in his dreams Cisco cannot catch them. There is the sound of insects buzzing, agitated and free. There is the glint of metal and the curl of a fist. There is the flash of the rainbow in a man’s narrowed eyes. There is a revolver with five bullets left and on each one is carved a name.

Sometimes, Cisco Ramon dreams. And when he opens his eyes to greet the new day, he forgets these dreams. The images fall away, shatter like soft-blown glass as it hits the floor. The fragments, sharp, glistening, are swept into dark corners, forsaken, forgotten.

Until the night comes, full circle. Cisco Ramon closes his eyes. And he dreams.

***


	14. [1/2] Episode 3: The Singing Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danton Black continues to unnerve, and a new, gaseous metahuman threat appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/12/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).  
> 05/23/17: Minor revisions, deleted author's notes, added chapter summary.

***

It has been nearly a week since Cisco discovered Danton Black’s active clone, trapped in the makeshift Pipeline prison. The man known as Harrison Wells is honestly at a loss as to what to do with the man, as his time in the fire has clearly left a deep, potentially permanent scar on his psyche. At one point in the beginning, Harrison remembers wondering how many clones Black’s consciousness traveled through before finding his way to this body. Based on the other clones proximity to each other and the intensity of Black’s screams, he postulates – all of them.

Danton Black screams. Day in, day out. He opens his eyes when he wakes, and he screams: “IT BURNS! IT BURNS!” He screams for his dead wife: “ELIZABETH!” And sometimes, very rarely, and solely for variety – or so Harrison imagines – he screams for someone to save him.

Barry’s attempts to explain the situation to Black have yielded no change in this behavior. Food and water are ignored, and several times Black has succumb to dehydration, at which point Cisco will use a gurney to bring him up from the Pipeline to the infirmary. Caitlin gives him a sedative to keep him unconscious while she hooks him to IV bags, forcing the basic nutrients the man needs for his continued survival into his system. After insuring Black’s health for another day, Caitlin calls for Cisco, who transports Black back to his cell. Black remains there, inert, for the hour or two it takes the sedative to work through his system.

At which point he opens his eyes, and then? He screams.

To be honest, the man known as Harrison Wells wishes that the three other members of this unit didn’t have such ridiculous standards in regards to acceptable, moral behaviors. It would be far kinder to put the man out of his misery than any of these poor attempts at “fixing” him. They could even do it humanely, a simple, swift and painless injection, like putting down a lame horse or a decrepit dog. Though the solution would be far simpler, Harrison hasn’t bothered to suggest it to Barry. The young man still spends about an hour talking to Clyde Mardon each day, but he has also tacked on about thirty minutes spent with Danton Black for all the good it's done.

Still, it’s concerning. All three members of this team are showing signs of stress. Clearly the situation weighs on their minds even outside of work. Cisco has dark bruises under both eyes, underscoring his lack of sleep. Caitlin’s hair is frazzled, her usually pristine appearance showing small signs of inattention – a stray string dangling from her sleeve that she hasn’t noticed and snipped clean, a button only pulled halfway through the hole on her cuff. As for Barry? While his usual appearance is haphazard and hurried – an ironic testament to the fact that even though he is the fastest man on earth, somehow he still always runs late – the true problem is evident in his eyes. The young man wears his heart on his sleeve, and honestly? These days, Barry Allen looks close to tears. He is clearly frustrated with how helpless he is to do anything in this situation, and it’s tearing him up inside.

As Harrison ponders how to resolve the situation, he spares a glance across the room. Cisco is typing away at one of the main computers in the Cortex, though it isn’t clear what project the young man has set his sights on for the day. Caitlin is perched a few feet away, peeking through a microscope she’s set up. She’s playing with a few of the samples she’s taken from Barry, likely trying to isolate and replicate the lighting that races through his blood and accelerates his healing. Harrison doesn’t wish to discourage her so he says nothing, but he knows that without the specific conditions responsible for Barry’s speed, replicating his advanced healing is a pipe dream.

It’s a few minutes past noon and Harrison is about to order lunch – a juicy burger honestly sounds like heaven at this moment – when Barry walks through the open doorway, followed closely by Joe West.

“Hey, guys,” Barry greets them with a grin. “We have – well, we think we have – a metahuman problem.”

Cisco immediately perks up. Glancing at Detective West, he theorizes, “And I’m guessing it’s about a crime?” West nods and Cisco groans, “Why aren’t there any _nice_ metahumans out there?”

Barry instantly objects, “Hey!”

“You don’t count,” Cisco grouches.

Caitlin slides off the stool where she’s sitting and moves to stand beside Cisco. She jabs him in the side with her elbow and mock-whispers over his indignant squawk of pain, “You know how you inform me when I’m being rude? This is me, informing you.”

“Stabbing me with your super pointy elbow!” Cisco retorts, glaring as he theatrically holds his hands to his side like he’s staunching the blood flow. “ _That’s_ rude!”

The man known as Harrison Wells sighs and shakes his head at their antics. He turns his gaze to Barry, only to find the young man is already looking at him. The expression on his face is fond, and there is the slightest hint of red dusting his cheeks. Joe West, on the other hand, is looking at Barry rather intently. His expression is troubled.

Detective West clears his throat, then says, “There was a multiple homicide last night. The entire Darbinyan crime family – every high to mid-ranked officer wiped out in the same place at the same time.”

Cisco frowns and asks, “And what makes you think this was an attack by a metahuman? Apart from higher volume, it doesn’t seem that strange to me that bad guys get killed, probably by other bad guys.”

“That’s the thing,” Barry says, clearly excited by the case, “Cause of death was ruled as asphyxiation, and there were distinct signs of histotoxic hypoxia.”

Caitlin nods and asks, “Poison gas, I assume? Do you know what specifically was used?”

“I took a lung sample to see what I could find; I’m still running it through back at my lab,” Barry replies.

“Still not seeing the weirdness,” Cisco grumbles.

Barry grins, “Because you haven’t let me finish. Here’s the rundown. One, all exits were bolted and locked from the inside, so our victims were trapped. Two, several witnesses state that the street was empty, so there wasn’t anyone pumping in gas from the outside, which means that the gas was generated from inside the room. But! There weren’t any canisters or containers the poison could have come from. Three, all of our victims were gathered around a table, so in theory whatever poisoned them should have killed them at the same rate, however each victim was ‘attacked’ separately, in different time frames, which leads me to believe–”

Cisco’s eyes light up, brightening with each point that Barry makes. By the end, he’s practically bouncing in his seat, “Oh! Oh!”

Harrison’s eyes narrow and he murmurs, “Fascinating. A metahuman who can manipulate poison gas.”

Still bouncing, Cisco starts to brainstorm. “Is it just poisonous gas, or can he control all aerated substances? And how is he able to formulate the connection? Is it physiological? Psychological?”

Caitlin chimes in, clearly fascinated, “So this individual can create a mental nexus using gaseous substances?”

Harrison tilts his head to the side as he clarifies, “You mean connect with gases on a molecular level?”

She nods, “Yes.”

Cisco grins, “That is – _ridiculously_ cool.”

Barry’s smiling as well. He’s clearly following the conversation with ease, though the techno-babble looks as if it has sailed cleanly over Detective West’s head. He glances over at his foster father and gives the older man a lopsided smile. “They get pretty excited about this stuff,” he says softly, clearly not wanting to disturbed the ball of insight that is being lobbed back and forth between Cisco, Caitlin, and Harrison in a peculiar round of verbal tennis.

Allowing Caitlin and Cisco to continue with their theorizing, the man known as Harrison Wells offers Barry a small smile and suggests, “Perhaps one of us should go with you to help isolate the poison from the lung sample you took? Until we know more, anything we come up with here is speculation at best.”

The smile on Barry’s face becomes a little shy as he hesitantly offers, “Well... would you like to come with me, Dr. Wells?”

Honestly surprised by the offer and marginally alarmed by the expression on Detective West’s face – if the man had laser vision, Harrison would be a pile of ashes, super speed or not – Harrison pulls a wry smile from his bag of tricks and dons it. “Thank you for the offer, Barry,” he says, sincere in his gratitude, “but it might be better for you to take Cisco or Caitlin. I’m not particularly good company to be around in public these days. It may have been nearly ten months, but no one has forgotten – or forgiven – my part in the creation of the particle accelerator.”

Barry frowns. “You shouldn’t have to feel like you can’t go out in public, though? That’s. I mean. Has anyone done something? Threatened you, or–”

The man known as Harrison Wells holds up a hand and explains, “There have been, well, more threats than I care to go into at the moment. It’s to be expected. However, you misunderstand my reasons for choosing to not accompanying you. I’m not afraid to go out in public, Barry. I simply don’t want my stigma to be transferred to anyone I happen to appear in public _with_.”

Harrison gives Barry a meaningful look as his words sink in. West is still glaring – though it calmed when Harrison first refused to accompany the young man to the station, having listened to the explanation as to why that is, the glare is returning, full force.

Cisco, the dear boy, extracts himself from the conversation he and Caitlin are having and says, “Dude, I wish I could come with you, but I’m actually working on something that’s a little time sensitive. Plus, poison? Lung tissue? I can do it, but that’s more Dr. Snow’s area of expertise.”

“I can come with you,” Caitlin nods readily. “It’ll just take me a moment to get my purse?”

“Okay,” Detective West says as Barry opens his mouth, still clearly upset by the revelation that there have been threats to Harrison’s life. Harrison wishes he could tell the young man, honestly, not to worry. There isn’t a single insect in this time who has the ability to hurt him, no matter how much they might wish otherwise. The insults? The death threats? They’re – cute. It reminds him of newborn puppies, so much bark for such little mouths, unable to even pierce his skin as they gum at him with their tiny, ineffectual teeth.

“This isn’t over,” Barry says to Harrison, mouth pinched in a thin, stubborn line. 

Unfortunately, there is no assurance he can offer Barry at this point. All he can do is wave the younger man’s worry aside and put up with the occasional weighty look or heavy sigh. How strange, to be on the receiving end of the Flash’s righteous concern. _Saint Barry_ , the man known as Harrison Wells thinks. That this particular thought is tinged with amused fondness should worry him, far more than it actually does.

***

Perhaps an hour later, the call comes from Caitlin, updating them on the facts available: the tissue sample from the victim’s lungs is a bust, the poison having already evaporated before tests could be run. On a more interesting note, the discovery of a second unidentified person’s DNA inside the victim’s lungs opens up the very real possibility that the metahuman they’re after transforms himself _into_ poison gas, rather than simply controlling it.

There is also a strange and miserable tone in Caitlin’s voice over the phone that forces him to ask, “Are you all right, Dr. Snow?”

“Yes,” she replies, but she punctuates the word with a tiny sniff that tells him she’s either in tears or barely holding them back. “I’m. I’m fine. There was a toxic gas attack at the Central City shopping mall. Barry is on his way there. He’ll need support.” Harrison can almost see her shake herself, repurposing, refocusing. She lets out a breath and her voice is noticeably calmer. “I’m on my way back to S.T.A.R. Labs now.”

“Very well,” Harrison replies. “Drive safely,” he cautions, “and we’ll see you when you get back.”

“Was that Cait?” Cisco calls out from where he sits at the main computer terminal in the Cortex.

“Yes,” Harrison says. “She’s on her way back. Can you patch into the security system for Central City mall? There was an attack there that sounds like it was perpetrated by our meta. Barry’s already on his way and should be contacting us–”

“Guys? Guys!” Barry’s tiny voice sounds from the speakers, the telltale whoosh of air causing minor white noise on his microphone.

“–shortly,” Harrison finishes. He and Cisco share an amused look, and Harrison rolls his wheelchair to sit beside the boy.

Cisco’s fingers fly over the keypad and a moment later he addresses Barry through the microphone. “Hey, Barry, we’re here. I patched into the mall’s security system. It looks as though the gas attack was in the main elevator in the north wing.”

“Which one is the north wing?” Barry asks hurriedly.

Harrison steals the microphone, leans in and replies easily, “The one with the Big Belly Burger.” At Cisco’s raised eyebrow, he defends shortly, “I eat.”

For a minute there is only the sound of Barry’s breath, more rushing of air, and then Barry is yelling, “Why did you kill that woman?” Whatever the metahuman replies is too far away to be picked up by the microphone, and there is grunting and gasping and wheezing, a very worrisome combination.

“Barry,” Harrison says to the com-link. “Barry, can you hear me?”

“His vitals are weak,” Cisco says, tapping a few keys as he runs through some basic diagnostics on Barry’s vitals, “but he’s alive, Dr. Wells. I’m sure he’s fine.”

There is a flash, a rustle of papers, and Barry is between them, clutching his chest with one hand futilely. He staggers, half-falling into Harrison’s lap as he gasps, “I can’t – breathe – I can’t–”

The man known as Harrison Wells feels a spike of pure terror. Then, fifteen years flash through his mind – fifteen years of sacrifice, of patience, of planning. If the Flash is to die in his arms, _he_ will be the one to strike the killing blow, not whatever pathetic metahuman who has decided to make a pest of themselves this week. This is – unforgivable. 

Harrison clutches Barry’s arm in a steel grip. He looks at Cisco, who is wide-eyed, full of panic, and he is painfully reminded of just how young their technical support actually is. He raises his voice to get the boy’s attention, demanding, “He needs oxygen – get the crash cart!”

As Cisco scrambles to the other room, grateful for the direction, Harrison turns his full attention back to Barry. His cowl is pulled back, enabling Harrison to see his full face, the sickly pallor of his skin, the fear in his bright, blue eyes. “Please–” Barry wheezes. “I can’t–”

“Save your breathe,” Harrison tells him, fingers convulsing as though by holding him tighter, he can ward off the poison that is threatening to take Barry’s life. “You’ll be fine.”

“Please,” Barry whimpers.

The man known as Harrison Wells cannot help but bite out, “Stop it. I can’t–” Barry is so far gone at this point, his eyes wildly darting around the room, unfocused, that it really doesn’t matter what is said. But hearing Barry Allen beg him for his life – well, he finds it doesn’t hold the same appeal when he’s not the one in control of it.

“I’m here! I’m – what happened?” Caitlin is running through the doorway, kicking her heels off so she can move more swiftly. Between the three of them, they manage to get a mask onto Barry’s face, forcing pure oxygen into his lungs as they maneuver him onto a gurney and roll him into the infirmary.

Barry gestures weakly to his chest and gasps, “Cut me – open – poison – still inside–”

 _Oh, Barry_ , Harrison thinks with a hint of pride. _You are learning, aren’t you?_

Aloud, he swiftly translates, “He’s brought us a sample. Caitlin, we need to do a pulmonary biopsy – extract an active portion of that gas.”

“I can’t–” Caitlin protests. She shakes her head, swallows, and looks into Barry’s glazed eyes as she says, “Your metabolism is too quick, Barry. I can’t give you any anesthetic. It – it’s going to hurt. A lot.”

“I heal – quick–” Barry wheezes.

“Do it,” Harrison interjects. Hesitation will gain them nothing.

“Cisco,” Caitlin says, and her voice wobbles just a little, “Give me the syringe.”

“You probably won’t even feel it,” Cisco lies, biting his lip nervously as he hands over the needle to Caitlin’s waiting hands. “It’s. It’s a small needle.”

“You’re definitely going to feel it,” Caitlin says, unwilling to lie, and without further preamble, she plunges the needle into Barry’s chest.

Barry arches up off the gurney, his eyes wide, his mouth opening into a silent scream. It is an image that the man known as Harrison Wells will remember for a long time to come. Most of him is pleased. Now that he knows that Barry Allen will survive, the pain on the Flash’s face? Nothing more than the man deserves, and this becomes a memory he will tuck away and treasure.

The other piece of him? The small, often ignored corner of his mind that sometimes finds itself watching Barry Allen for reasons that don’t pertain to revenge? That part of his mind will remember Barry’s face in this moment, and will feel conflicted. Barry Allen is beautiful in his suffering, but his expression is... haunting. Harrison refuses to dwell on the matter any more than that.

***


	15. [2/2] Episode 3: The Big Bad Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a little help from both Dr. Wells and Cisco, Caitlin takes a first, tentative step in overcoming her grief. Barry battles Kyle Nimbus for the second time, and the man known as Harrison Wells approaches a meta in the Pipeline with a proposal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/12/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).  
> 05/23/17: Minor revisions, deleted author's notes, added chapter summary.

***

It’s been nearly an hour since the initial flurry of activity – Barry, clutching at his chest, gasping for air, Cisco, scrambling to pull the crash cart from the infirmary to the Cortex, Caitlin, stabbing a six inch needle into Barry’s chest with steady hands – and now they have reached the calm. The young man in question is lying unconscious on the infirmary bed, still wearing his red suit, though the jacket is open and his chest is bare. The man known as Harrison Wells finds himself glancing over from where he sits at the computer, eyes seeking out that chest without meaning to, following its gentle rise and fall, the quiet, unassuming reassurance that Barry Allen is alive.

Caitlin flits around Barry’s bedside, checking his vitals and making small, unnecessary adjustments to the tubes that connect him to the many surrounding machines. She is upset. It is clear in the brevity of her movements, and by the fact that she’s searching for something to occupy her hands, to keep herself from feeling useless.

“What exactly is on your mind, Dr. Snow?” Harrison asks, cutting straight to the point without looking up from his computer. He taps a few keys, isolating molecules, separating the poison from the DNA as he runs the active portion of the gas through their system. The poison extracted from Barry’s lungs is the key, he has no doubt, as he searches for any clue to the identity of their metakiller.

“I don’t – I mean, nothing.” She fiddles with one of the dials on Barry’s monitor. “Everything’s fine.”

“In the last sixty minutes, you’ve adjusted each of Barry’s monitors a combined total of thirty-two times. You’ve checked his vitals seventeen times – twice, you’ve done so in the span of the same minute. You’ve unhooked and reattached each of his backup tubes a total of twenty-six times, and you’ve checked his pulse by hand–” He glances at where Caitlin’s two fingers now rest at the hollow of Barry’s throat meaningfully. “–fourteen times.”

“I’m his personal physician,” Caitlin defends, snatching her hand away from Barry’s neck as if burned. “It’s my job to make sure everything is in order.”

“You’re worried about him,” Harrison says, and he puts a small, half-smile on his lips as he meets her eyes. She looks apprehensive, and her fear makes her appear so much younger than her years. “There’s no shame to be had in that. I worry for him as well.” He glances at the young man’s inert form and finds the wry twist to his lips comes quite naturally. “Constantly.”

“I know, Dr. Wells,” Caitlin replies, nibbling her lower lip in a rare show of nervousness. “It’s just – difficult. After Ronnie. Caring about anyone.” She shakes her head, letting out a small sigh, then repeats helplessly, “It’s difficult.”

“Really?” he asks, still smiling. “Because it seems to me that your problem doesn’t stem from being unable to care. If anything, for all your prickly posturing, I think you care too much.” She says nothing in reply and he lets the statement hang between them for a moment as he crosses another chemical component off the list. He doesn’t look up as he continues, “Caring will never be safe, my dear. The more you care, the more easily someone can slip a knife into your heart when you’re not paying attention.”

“I know, Dr. Wells,” Caitlin repeats quietly. Harrison can tell her thoughts have turned to Ronnie Raymond and his death in the Pipeline, which in turn brings him to another point he’s been waiting to resolve.

“At some point, you’ll need to face your fears, you know,” he tells her, gentle, firm.

Caitlin’s eyes fly up to meet his, and he can see he has pulled her from her introspection into a zone she isn’t entirely comfortable with. “I’m sorry...?” she says.

“The Pipeline,” Harrison clarifies, watching her fingers spasm ever so slightly, clenching tightly around the tubing she’s taken to fiddling with. “Cisco has been available to bring both Mr. Mardon and Mr. Black up on the gurney when they’ve needed medical attention, but ideal conditions never last, and eventually something will go wrong. When that happens, you will be asked to go into that place – the place where Ronnie died–”

“Dr. Wells, I don’t think–” she protests faintly, her slim shoulders trembling nearly imperceptibly. She takes a single step back, as if she can physically distance herself from this unwanted conversation.

“Caitlin,” he says, and the rare use of her first name seems to shock her into silence. “I do not tell you this to hurt you. If anything, I want you to be prepared for the worst because I can very easily imagine–” intimately, a yellow suit, electric red lighting, “–what is coming. I want you to face your fears on your own terms, before you are forced to face them on someone else’s.”

She whispers, “What if – what if I can’t handle it?” Her voice is very small. “Picking up the pieces – after Ronnie. What if going there – breaks me?”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” Harrison says. His eyes drift back to the screen where he’s working, allowing her a private moment to compose herself. “Barry, Cisco – even myself, though I don’t imagine my company would be the most comforting – any of us would accompany you, stand by your side, if you asked.”

“You were strong enough to pick up those pieces in the face of tragedy,” he continues, and his fingers fly over the keyboard as he works. “Facing the location where that tragedy took place? I believe, despite your doubts and worries, you will find it far easier.”

There is a bit of shuffling and a few quiet sniffs from Caitlin. Then, “I – if Black keeps to the same schedule he’s been on, he’ll be passing out in the next hour or so. I think – I’ll keep Cisco company, if he doesn’t mind.”

The man known as Harrison Wells smiles, genuinely pleased that Caitlin is willing to take that first step. He also finds himself relieved that Cisco is her chosen confidant; handling these emotional displays is quite taxing, especially in larger doses.

“Thank you,” Caitlin murmurs.

“You’re welcome,” he replies without looking up, grateful to be done with the whole affair.

***

Caitlin’s estimate of Danton Black’s blackout is spot-on, and she and Cisco head down to the Pipeline prison to deal with him together. Harrison imagines that conversation will take a bit of time, with Cisco’s misplaced guilt over Ronnie’s death and Caitlin’s obvious issues stemming from the loss of her fiancé.

It is simply fortuitous timing that as the pair head out, Barry Allen begins to stir. He wakes near instantaneously, one moment unconscious, the next groaning as he struggles to sit up. Harrison directs his wheelchair to side of the infirmary’s bed, and when Barry sees him, the young man offers him a pained, crooked smile. “The Streak lives,” he wheezes.

“If I could reach, I would be pushing you back down on that bed, Mr. Allen,” Harrison says, and he pretends not to see the way his words cause Barry to blush as he misconstrues the statement. He continues relentlessly, “You need rest, Barry. You’d be dead if your lungs didn’t regenerate so quickly.”

“Dr. Wells–” Barry begins, then smiles again, still blushing faintly. “I mean, Harrison. I’m. I’m fine? I mean, my chest kind of feels like that one time I had a cigarette, but I’ll be okay.”

At Harrison’s raised eyebrow, Barry lets out a small laugh that does nothing to disguise the pain he is still clearly feeling. “Yeah,” the young man defends, “Teen me? Lived for danger.”

“Your potential demise isn’t a laughing matter,” Harrison says shortly. A highly anticipated one, certainly. A moment to be savored, treasured, recorded and replayed. But a moment to be laughed at? Absolutely not.

“I’m fine,” Barry says again, and has the audacity to lay a hand on Harrison’s shoulder – in _comfort_ – from where he’s propped up against the pillow. Instantly, a shock of lighting sparks between them, and it feels – _oh_ , the man known as Harrison Wells can’t contain a quiet gasp. Barry pulls his hand away, startled.

Without acknowledging the spark or his rather embarrassing reaction to it, Harrison spins his wheelchair around and steers back to his computer terminal. “I’ve been working on analyzing the sample you kindly brought us,” he says tonelessly. “Deciphering the makeup of the poison will hopefully give us a clue to the identity of our killer.”

“I should – go,” Barry says abruptly. Harrison glances back to see the young man sitting up fully, wincing as the movement shifts his ribcage against his aching lungs. “I need to get to the station.”

“You should be resting,” Harrison reiterates sharply, hating that this young man makes him repeat himself so unnecessarily, hating his involuntary response to that tiny spark of lighting between them. He forces himself to control his tone of voice, reigning in his frustration as he asks, “What is so important that it cannot wait the few hours it will take you to fully heal?”

Barry nibbles his lower lip, then says, “I need to talk to Joe.”

Arching an eyebrow at the obstinate young man, Harrison ripostes, “And have you forgotten, perhaps, that the both of you own cell phones?” and is gratified that Barry at least has the decency to flush. A quick call from his own cell phone makes short work of locating Barry’s, tucked carefully in the corner of Cisco’s workstation. He retrieves the phone, steering his wheelchair with the ease of one who has practiced daily, and deposits the device into Barry’s hands.

Their fingers do not touch, and the man known as Harrison Wells finds with some trepidation that he regrets that. He says, “You look half-dead, Barry. If you need to talk to Joe, call him, but please–” He pins the young man with another look, “–take an hour, maybe two. Heal.”

There is a tense moment as Barry looks at the phone in his hands, then searchingly into Harrison’s eyes. Apparently he finds whatever it is he’s looking for, because he swallows once, reflexively, and nods his head slowly. “Okay,” he says, and the tension bleeds from his body as he relaxes slowly, settling more comfortably onto the infirmary’s sickbed. “Okay. Um. Thank you,” Barry says, and he bites his lip.

“For what?” Harrison asks over his shoulder, directing his wheelchair towards the door to give Barry the illusion of privacy when he calls Detective West.

The reply is almost too soft for him to hear, and it’s enough to pause him momentarily in his tracks. “For caring,” Barry says earnestly, and it’s a strange, painful moment. Really, his own words come back to haunt him, because it honestly feels like the young man has slipped a knife between his third and fourth ribs, angling it with unerring precision into his heart.

The man known as Harrison Wells says nothing. For once, it’s because whatever words might have crossed his lips would be a lie, and at this moment, in the face of Barry Allen’s horrible honesty, he finds he cannot lie. He leaves – not flees, he was already heading toward the door – and does not look back.

***

When Cisco and Caitlin return, both seem lighter. There is nothing specific or concrete that he can pinpoint, but it seems their time in the Pipeline together has resolved some of the unspoken tension each of them carried. Cisco immediately runs through Harrison’s work on the poison gas, and brings up a 3D molecular model on screen as he crows, “Got it! Hydrogen cyanide! Mixed with – um, Caitlin, what’s this one?”

“It looks like a sedative,” she replies, peering at the image. “Mid-grade.”

“Oh!” Barry says from his spot on the bed. “God, I’m an idiot. I can’t believe I didn’t–” He trails off, shakes his head. “Um. Can you check Iron Height’s records and see if anyone was scheduled for execution the night of the explosion?”

Cisco taps a few keys, his brow furrowing as he filters through the strings of information on the screen. “Looks like it. One execution took place that night. Kyle Nimbus.” He hits a few more keys and an inmate’s mug shot takes the place of the 3D poison model. He is a bald, rather unpleasant looking man with a cruel smirk.

“That’s him,” Barry confirms.

Caitlin peers over Cisco’s shoulder and says, “It looks as though he was a hit man for the Darbinyan crime family. They turned on him and testified.”

“And Judge Theresa Howard – the woman who was killed at the mall – she was the one who stood at his trial,” Cisco contributes. “She sentenced him to death.”

All the facts seem to fit quite nicely together, the puzzle of their mystery metahuman coming neatly together before his eyes. Harrison muses aloud from where he sits near the computer terminal, “Mr. Nimbus must have been affected by the explosion while he was being gassed. The result is a man who can transform himself into the very thing that was going to kill him. Fascinating.”

“That’s a seriously nasty mist,” Cisco says, wrinkling his nose. Abruptly his eyes widen, his delight almost comical. “The Mist! Okay, that’s his name. End of discussion.”

With a gentle swat to the back of Cisco’s head that is clearly meant in fondness – with perhaps the smallest touch of exasperation – Caitlin continues to scan the data on the screen. “Oh!” she exclaims softly. “Actually, it looks as though the records indicate the execution was actually completed? Is that why–”

Barry picks up her train of thought and finishes seamlessly, “–there wasn’t a match when I ran the original DNA through the precinct’s DNA database. It only keeps records of the living.” The word living seems to jar the young man from his revelation and he adds thoughtfully, “When I was at the mall, Nimbus–”

“The Mist,” Cisco mutters petulantly.

“–said there was one more person on his hit list. If he’s going after people connected to his ‘death,’ then–”

The man known as Harrison Wells follows the direction of Barry’s thoughts quite easily. He addresses Cisco and Caitlin as he orders, “Check the arrest records. Who was the lead detective?”

The look that Cisco gives Barry is enough to set Harrison’s teeth on edge. It is the look of a doctor ready to announce the benign, unassuming mole on a leg is in fact the beginning stages of a cancer, and by virtue of its position, is likely inoperable. It is the time-honored look of the messenger, and it seems that Barry senses that because his eyes are glued to Cisco’s face, wild and desperate.

“Detective Joe West,” Cisco whispers. “Shit. Shit shit shit.”

***

As with all of Barry’s battles so far, there is little Team S.T.A.R. can do but sit and wait. The good detective is apparently visiting Barry’s father at Iron Heights – something that Harrison is quite certain he will need to look into later. PGideon is constantly sifting through hundreds of hours worth of video and audio footage daily; if certain key words are mentioned in conversation, her filters will pick them out, informing him of all pertinent information.

Regardless, the Flash is armed with a single dose of an antidote to the Mist’s poison that Caitlin reverse-engineered in the short amount of time it took Barry to locate West, and without preamble he is gone in an instant. His speed is progressing, the man known as Harrison Wells notes, pleased. Perhaps not at an ideal rate, but inside acceptable perimeters, certainly.

Things advance quickly, events in motion even as they struggle to contain the collateral damage. Barry breaks into the prison with the ease of a man who has planned it for many years, which is a most interesting skill for a superhero to have. Do his prison-breaking abilities extend beyond Iron Heights to other prisons, perhaps? Just how adept has the young man become over the years at planning such things? He doesn’t even know how to run up walls yet, or phase through solid objects, the man known as Harrison Wells muses. 

Predictably, Barry uses his single dose of antidote on Joe West, just after Nimbus attempts to kill him and very nearly succeeds. The subsequent game of cat and mouse the Flash and the Mist play has dangerously high stakes, and all that Harrison can think is – “Keep moving, Barry. I’m almost certain he won’t be able to stay in his gaseous form for extended periods of time. As the least stable form of matter, he will eventually need to reform.”

“–make it – sound so – easy–” Barry says breathlessly through the com-link, and Harrison suppresses a smile because that particular flavor of sarcasm has Barry’s name written all over it. Even in the middle of a metahuman battle when he really shouldn’t be wasting a single breath, the young man squanders those precious seconds to _snark_. He is more at ease using his abilities, more dangerously comfortable being the Flash.

“Would you prefer I made it hard?” Harrison cannot help but tease, thinking of his yellow suit, and he pointedly ignores Cisco’s snicker and Caitlin’s faint blush.

Barry’s reply is lost in a wave of white static, and Harrison learns forward into the microphone as he says, “Barry? Barry, can you hear me?” He has a momentary flash of the last time there was radio silence, of the young man falling into his lap, gasping feebly for air, dying in his arms.

Another moment passes, then: “Got him!” Barry sounds exuberant. “We win.”

“We’ll see you back here–” Harrison begins, and the Flash is in front of them, cowl up, grinning like he’s won a Nobel Prize. Kyle Nimbus is unconscious in his arms. “–in a flash,” he finishes warmly. In his mind, he is grinning just as fiercely. _Soon_ , he thinks, elated. _Be still the eager beating of this faithless heart. Soon!_

***

Later that night, the man known as Harrison Wells shuts down the audio feed in the Pipeline prison, leaving only the security cameras online. He steers his wheelchair to Danton Black’s repurposed cell, punching in the necessary codes, waiting patiently as the massive doorway shifts, gears turning to allow him access. The room slots into place. Unsurprisingly, Black is screaming.

“IT BURNS! ELIZABETH!”

Harrison moves his wheelchair forward so that Black can see him clearly. For several long moments, he says nothing, content to listen, to observe. Then he clears his throat and begins to speak, although his voice is partially drowned out by the sounds coming from Black.

“Your name,” he says carefully, “is Danton Black. Your wife’s name–”

“ELIZABETH!”

“–was Elizabeth Black.” Harrison smiles, glancing up at the security camera. He purposefully angles his chair so that as he speaks, the footage will only show the back of his head. He continues, “Elizabeth died because of a man named Simon Stagg – a man _you_ tried, and failed, to kill.”

“IT BURNS!”

“I image it does, Mr. Black,” Harrison says. “You see, you died. How many times, I cannot begin to speculate. It seems as though your mind is shattered, possibly beyond repair. However, I’m almost certain there is just enough of you left inside that hollow shell to understand me. Just enough–”

“IT BURNS!”

“–to accept what I am willing to offer. If you can prove to me that you’re still in there,” with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, Harrison tilts his head to the side, considering, “I will offer you a trade. I will kill Simon Stagg for you. Wouldn’t you like that? And in return, you will do a single favor for me. Your wife’s killer for a favor. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

“ELIZABETH!”

Harrison’s eyes narrow. It has taken him days of consideration to come to this. Danton Black can be useful, broken as he is. He is dangerous, a wildcard, but if he can be controlled, directed – that danger can be turned into an advantage. 

“But first? A show of good faith, if you will. Your constant screaming is damaging the morale of my team, and your starving yourself? It stresses their tender hearts, you understand.”

“IT BURNS!”

“Mr. Black, your answer?” Harrison allows his eyes to flash red for just a moment, distorting his voice with vibration. “I assure you, I am quite capable.”

He drops the act, only to find Danton Black’s sunken, red-rimmed eyes glued to his face. The emaciated man shows signs of awareness, of focus, for the first time in weeks. The screaming? Silenced.

Danton Black reaches out his hand. It trembles uncontrollably, fine motor skills having deteriorated over the weeks of disuse and from lack of proper nutrition. He fumbles with the cup of water that sits within his reach, spilling most of it as he brings it clumsily to his parched lips. He drinks as best he can, eyes never leaving Harrison’s. There is determination in them. Madness. Hatred.

Deliberately, Black drops the cup, having finished its contents. Half of it is spilled down his front, but in this case, clearly it is the thought that counts.

“Mr. Black,” Harrison repeats with a slow smile. “Your answer?”

Danton Black crawls forward, unable to stand. His skeletal fingers claw futilely at the glass between them as he opens his mouth and whispers desperately, “It burns.”

***


	16. [1/5] Episode 4: Cinderella after Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonard Snart is stuck in the pit of depression. The man known as Harrison Wells sits on the throne of control. It's funny how sometimes it only takes a single moment for the world to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 05/27/17: Minor revisions, deleted author's notes, added chapter summary.

***

Central City is gray. Day in, day out, the clouds in the sky are dull, listless, casting a dark and dingy shadow over the streets. There is no other explanation for the fog he sees now. The people who talk to him, their voices sound as if they are across the room rather than directly next to him. His own replies, garbled to his ears, faded like a pair of his sister’s stone washed jeans. 

He takes another beer from the mini-refrigerator in his hotel, opens it, tosses the lid toward the trashcan, misses. Around the base of the trashcan, there are dozens of half-bent bits of metal that he hasn’t bothered to pick up. He never used to let them build up to this point. Then again, he frowns as he squints at the offending lids, he never used to miss.

Another corner of his mind, distant, disapproving, points out he never used to drink this heavily, either. It’s likely half of the reason Lisa left him when she did; he is starting to remind himself of his father. He can’t even muster up the energy to be angry at himself for it. Pathetic.

The trashcan itself is overflowing with empty beer bottles. There are bottles littering every flat surface in the room – the small table in the kitchenette, the desk where his laptop sits, silent, mocking, the ledge of the window sill, the dresser, the nightstand, the counter with the television that is even now playing some gossipy bit of trash about Oliver Queen’s reclusive millionaire escapades, ultimately white static in the background.

The clothing he wears smells of beer, tainted by the putrid stink of someone who hasn’t bothered to shower for days. It doesn’t matter; he hasn’t been outside in that long, at least. He squints again, spotting the cardboard pizza box on the floor. He’d ordered it – yesterday? Probably – but he doesn’t remember eating any of it. He absently toes the box open with one of his bare feet, glancing down at the pizza in its entirety. There isn’t a single slice missing.

Ah. That would be _why_ he doesn’t remember eating any of it. 

He remembers he had a craving for Chinese food, but he doesn’t eat Chinese food anymore.

He debates eating a slice of pizza. He isn’t sure when the last time he ate was. Two days ago? Maybe three? The days bleed together, jagged edges smoothing only in his memory, a conglomerate of late night beer runs and hazy days spent lying in his hotel bed, ignoring the phantom in the room without much success. Sometimes when he wakes up, disoriented, he swears he can feel the warmth of another man’s body spooned against his backside. If he lets himself believe it, he can feel the curl of another man’s lips, smiling into the back of his neck, pressing small, lazy kisses there, the ghost against his skin. If he closes his bleary, bloodshot eyes, and lets himself go, just for a moment, he can pretend that everything is okay. Mick never burned, Lisa never left, and Barry – 

He breathes in, then out. The sound is muted to his own ears, and his chest stutters unevenly. He squeezes his eyes shut, swigs his beer.

Opening his eyes, he pushes the pizza box away with his foot, appetite gone. He moves to sit in front of his laptop. He opens it with one hand, booting it up and signing into his e-mail. He clicks open the most recent e-mail, the one with “Results” and today’s date in the header.

Barry Allen, it says. Comatose. Condition stable. No change.

He shuts down the laptop, then turns to stare out the window at S.T.A.R. Labs. Tomorrow, he has a heist to execute. Everything is in place, and really, one of his own rules that he’s currently breaking is that he doesn’t drink the night before a job, preferring to handle his business with a clear head. Instead, here he sits, a self-deprecating sneer twisting his lips as drinks his – eighth? tenth? – beer until it’s empty. He stands, walking to the refrigerator, mostly steady, and grabs another beer.

He twists the lid, chucks it at the trashcan, misses. The lid lands on the floor of the kitchenette with a tiny clink, spinning like a quarter before settling. The sound fills him with inexplicable rage. Abruptly, he hurls the bottle in his hand against the nearest wall, watching it explode in a shower of foamy beer and glittering glass. The sound it makes is like a gunshot.

The anger leaves him as swiftly as it came and he feels – hollow. Empty. Someone in the room across from his is banging against wall angrily, yelling at him to keep it down. He takes a few shuffling steps towards the bed, then after a moment of hesitation, lays down, curling into himself and willing sleep to find him faster.

He didn’t know. Not then, not when it would have made any difference. He had no idea what he was losing until it had already slipped through his fingers like sand at the beach. He wonders how he is still here, still breathing. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t know it at the time – the world ended ten months ago. 

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Central City is gray and tomorrow he will rob an armored car and steal a priceless diamond.

In the end, it isn’t worth a thing. 

Leonard Snart closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep.

***

The man known as Harrison Wells smiles. It’s a small, controlled smile as he stares at the chessboard in front of him, contemplating his next move. Across the room, Barry darts from one station to the next, grinning like a child at play. He hits the ping-pong ball to Cisco where they have set up a table in the middle of the room – to be honest, Harrison hadn’t even been aware that they _had_ a ping-pong table. Cisco had enlisted Barry’s help earlier to dig it out of storage from where it sat collecting dust in the old employee lounge, and while their impromptu competition had been amusing, it wasn’t until Harrison had challenged Barry to play a game of chess simultaneously that things truly began to spiral out of control.

The game of Operation in front of Caitlin buzzes loudly and Harrison hears her curse softly. 

Another clatter as the ping-pong ball bounces on the table, punctuated by Cisco’s “Ah!” and Barry is across the table from him. Barry’s wild grin softens to a half-smile as he reaches out a hand, makes a move, and slaps the timer to end his turn. His eyes shine, lightning flashing through them in silent challenge. Unbidden, the man known as Harrison Wells cannot help but return that smile. To think this young man honestly believes himself a challenge – he weighs his options, picks his battle, and nudges his rook forward two spaces, leaving himself two avenues of retreat even as he sets his trap.

“This isn't even remotely anatomically correct,” Caitlin protests from across the room, her lips pursing into a frown as she tries to pick up one of the pieces with over-sized tweezers. The game buzzes at her angrily, and she jumps in her seat and drops the tweezers with another curse.

“That isn’t the point, Dr. Snow,” Harrison says, smiling at the board, eyes narrow. He plays through the possibilities as Barry darts back, making another move and hitting the timer before darting to the middle room where he and Cisco exchange a furious flurry of ping-pong blows.

Caitlin growls – actually growls – which, granted, is as intimidating as finding a stuffed animal that makes the same noise when squeezed around its fluffy middle, and the game makes another angry buzzing sound at her. “Then what _is_ the point?” she mutters under her breath.

“To have fun!” Cisco and Barry reply at the same time, then grin at each other, co-conspirators armed with ping-pong paddles.

“And to continue your ongoing training,” Harrison feels obligated to remind the young man, “by testing the speed of your mind by pushing your ability to multitask.”

Barry is in front of him, still smiling, still challenging, still convinced that he is capable of winning this game they play. He glances at the board, moves a piece, hits the timer. The smile on his face turns a little smug as he teases, “Waiting on you, Dr. Wells!”

There is another buzz. Not from where Caitlin sits, but from the speakers overhead. An alarm, then. One that Cisco set up to alert the team of crimes as they are reported over the hacked police scanner. Distracted by the noise, Cisco misses the ball that Barry spins at him across the table. Rather than be put out by Barry’s win, he offers a salute and a smile, then darts over to his computer to check the incoming alert.

Caitlin tosses her over-sized tweezers down in frustration, conceding Barry’s win as Cisco says, “I think we’ve got something, guys.”

The man known as Harrison Wells continues to smile, moving a pawn Barry had failed to capture earlier when presented with the choice, pawn or knight. “Checkmate,” he says with slow satisfaction.

“Wait–” Barry says, suddenly in front of him again, staring down at the board even as the expression on his face begins to fall. “Checkmate?”

“Checkmate,” Harrison confirms. He watches Barry’s eyes dart from the pawn he’s just moved to several key pieces on the board. A strange sliver of pleasure tickles the edge of his awareness as he watches the young man mentally backtrack the game, examining the choices that lead to his ultimate failure, clear now in hindsight. “Perhaps I still have a few things left to teach you, Mr. Allen,” he says, and Barry’s eyes are suddenly on his. There is an intensity to them, a slow, surprising heat that borders on desire.

While he has deliberately flirted with Barry, gently teasing the young man with statements that can be taken at face value or read into more deeply, to see Barry Allen looking at him like this – unashamed, eyes dark. It is so entirely unexpected that Harrison’s expression goes slack in response. 

“Armed robbery at 4th and Collins,” Cisco calls from across the room.

“Yeah,” Barry agrees softly, and the word sounds like a promise, “definitely have a lot to learn.” Then louder, for Cisco and Caitlin to hear, he grins, “For the record, I _killed_ it in Operation and ping-pong.” He strides to where his suit awaits, changes at light speed, and disappears, presumably to stop the robbery.

Across the room, Cisco snickers at Caitlin for her complete failure at playing the game of Operation. “Aren’t you some kind of doctor?” he teases.

“It’s harder than it looks,” Caitlin protests faintly, nose crinkling upwards as she frowns at the offending game.

The man known as Harrison Wells sits in silence. He doesn’t pay mind to Caitlin and Cisco’s good-natured bickering, or hear the buzzing of the game as Cisco tries and fails to pick up one of the plastic pieces. Instead, he finds himself picturing Barry’s expression – heat pools in his gut in response, and there – fierce, unexpected desire.

Half of him wants to step out of this wheelchair, to stand openly in front of the younger man. To see Barry’s eyes widen, confusion giving way to need. To pin the younger man beneath him, using his size to his advantage as Barry arches up against him. To taste him, run his tongue from the base of Barry’s neck up to the delicate curve of his ear. To listen to the sounds Barry will make, the tiny, breathless little whine as buries himself in the other man’s heat.

The other half of him wants to step out of this wheelchair, to tower over the smaller man. To see the Flash’s eyes widen, confusion giving way to terror. To pin the younger man down, his size and strength giving the Flash no choice but to struggle powerlessly beneath him. To bite down on the younger man’s neck, sinking teeth into vulnerable flesh, hard enough to draw blood. To listen to the sounds he will make, the tiny, helpless little whine that will abruptly cut off as he wraps his fingers around the Flash’s neck and squeezes.

The two images burn into his mind, juxtaposed, and he feels himself grow hard. This is – fuck.

He grits his teeth, willing the erection away. No. He is in control. He has plans in motion, and this pesky – desire? He knows Barry Allen is attractive. He’s known it ever since he watched Leonard Snart pin the younger man against an alley wall and rut against him like an animal in heat. It changes nothing.

Over the com-link, Harrison hears Barry ask, “Where’s the nearest hospital?” There is a strange note in his voice that Harrison cannot place, but no alarms have gone off, indicating his vitals are fine and he is not injured.

 _This changes nothing_ , Harrison repeats in his mind. His heart pounds in his chest and he regulates his agitated breathing. _Nothing._

***

Leonard Snart begins his day with a shower. He steps beneath the flow of water, washing the stink of sweat and alcohol away. He breathes in the steam, slowly, deeply, and for a moment the fog recedes from his mind. He steps out of the shower, towels himself dry, and grabs a handful of aspirin from the bottle beside the faucet.

He is briefly tempted to wash them down with a beer from the fridge. Briefly.

The fog returns. It is only through years of practice that he is able to pull together the appropriate attire for a heist, his clothing form-fitting, black. The black suits his team will be wearing are already waiting for him at the warehouse he’s chosen as his base of operation, along with the other gear he’s collected over the last several weeks. The tank of liquid nitrogen was especially tricky to get, but it will be invaluable in breaking open the back doors of the armored car. Even with one hundred and eighty two seconds to work with, he still needs to move quickly. 

He glances up at the sky through the window of his rental car. There are very few clouds, but everything still seems gray, overcast and dull. He parks his car out of sight near the rear entrance of the warehouse, meeting up with his crew as they go over the plan one final time. He checks the truck he’d had them steal the night before, prepped and ready to go. He pinpoints the best street to attack, balancing the distance from any police station for the maximum amount of allotted time with the obvious desire to pick the most deserted area. The motorcycles, prepped. The suits, ready for use. Their weapons, loaded, checked, holstered at their sides. 

“We do not shoot police officers or guards unless there is no choice,” Len reiterates, eyes ghosting over each of the three men in turn. “We don’t need the heat.”

One of them – what is his name? It starts with a J, Len’s almost certain – a well-muscled man with short dark hair and a nasty, noticeable scar that mars his face, marking the skin beneath his right eye – waves a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters.

Disrespectful. If given the opportunity, Len will likely shoot him before this day is done.

His initial plan goes off without a hitch. Their timing is perfect, as two of his men speed up to the armored car on motorcycles, and the third skillfully maneuvers their stolen truck backwards. They grab the yellow hooks from their own truck, anchoring them onto their target, and once those are in place, there is no chance of escape. With a foot on the brake, their truck halts all movement, and Len starts his internal countdown. Precious seconds tick away as his men pull the guards from the front of the truck and he aims the liquid nitrogen at the armored car’s rear door.

He freezes the door, then kicks it open in a movement that makes his head ache. Quickly, he slips inside, eyes already scouring the truck’s contents for the diamond. From outside the car, he hears one of his men cry out in alarm. Startled, he realizes that loud cry was actually two of his men, yelling out nearly simultaneously. He pokes his head out from the back of the van, only to feel his world jerk out from underneath him. 

Leonard Snart is in freefall. It is unexpected, a sudden burst of movement that he has no chance to defend against, and he lands on the asphalt with a grunt of surprise. There is a streak of red disappearing down the road and he tugs his mask off to get a better look.

Then, a gun shot. One of his crew – oh, J, arrogantly disrespectful J – shoots one of the guards. The guard is of no threat to them, and there isn’t any reason or motive Len can attribute to the action save thoughtless panic. The streak of red is back before he knows it, only it – he? – pauses, allowing Len to get a better look at him. 

It is a man, but not a man like Len has ever seen before. Out of focus, a blurry image that makes him wonder if perhaps he had more to drink last night than he realized. It’s impossible to get a good read on the man – approximate height, somewhere around six feet – approximate weight, difficult to tell – approximate build, hard to say – hair, hidden beneath a blurry mask – eyes, too far away for a clear visual.

The only distinguishing feature Len can identify – apart from the fact that he’s dressed entirely in red and fucking _vibrates_ – is a hazy, yellow bolt of lightning in the middle of the man’s chest.

The man takes an aborted half step towards him, his hand outreached. Len raises his gun and fires experimentally, trying to confirm the impossible things he’s seeing, and the man is suddenly not in front of him anymore.

Fast. Faster than anyone Leonard Snart has ever heard of. Faster than anything, actually, Leonard Snart has ever seen. Faster than cars. Faster than bullets. _Jesus Christ_ , he thinks, dazed as his crew finally begins to collect themselves, scrambling to jump on the motorcycles as they make their getaway. He notes the man in red is a blurry image beside the guard who has been shot, and he realizes that they will not be pursued if they make their escape now.

This man, apparently he cares about civilian casualties, enough that he’s willing to risk his prey escaping.

“Move it!” he calls out, and his crew scrambles to follow his orders as they rev their engines and shoot off like the devil himself is on their trail. 

_Not a devil_ , Len thinks to himself, his mind fully clear for the first time in months as his thoughts kick into overdrive. Apart from the red suit, the man – the impossible streak of red – cares too much. The devil doesn’t care, but this man does, and Len can use that. That reeks of weakness, begging to be exploited.

Then, abruptly, Len sits up straighter, causing the man who is driving to curse as he struggles to maintain balance. The whisper comes unbidden to his mind, and he thinks of Barry Allen. He thinks of Barry without the sting of loss that usually follows because –

 _A man in the lightning murdered my mother_ , Barry said, years ago. _It all happened in an instant, but I’ve spent a lifetime struggling to understand it._

A man in the lighting. The fastest man alive.

Leonard Snart realizes something. As the wind whips by his face and color bleeds back into his vision, he realizes the world isn't gray at all. Right now, at this moment in fact, he’s seeing red.

(He feels so fucking alive.)

***


	17. [2/5] Episode 4: The Huntsman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously? Like, seriously? The response for last chapter was _overwhelming_. Thinking about it fries my brain. You are all amazing, and I appreciate every last one of those comments with my all of me. I will respond to them, but it may take me a day because there are so many! It’s amazing, you’re all amazing. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Also, yes, blatant nod to Fight Club in this chapter. Because reasons.
> 
> 02/12/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).

***

From a hidden room in S.T.A.R. Labs, the man known as Harrison Wells paces restlessly. All it takes is a moment for him to look at his newspaper from the future, to assure himself that events are going according to plan. Unexpectedly, the header still reads, “April 2024 – Flash Missing – Vanishes in Crisis,” and the article is still written by an Iris Allen-West. It’s pleasing, but there is a nagging feeling that itches the base of his skull, a bizarre pang of – he attempts to place it – disappointment? 

Pleased and disappointed simultaneously. A strange dichotomy, for a man who prides himself on his own clarity of purpose.

Barry’s face flashes through his mind, and he mentally curses the very real, very physical response that accompanies it. That heated, smoky expression from earlier refuses to leave him alone, and Harrison finds himself wondering how a man who is so clearly interested in other men could find a life partner in a woman. Perhaps future-Barry will marry her as a cover? A – what’s the word this century favors? – beard? Or perhaps this, all of this – two years wasted on Leonard Snart, and these current, covetous flirtations – is an experiment for Barry Allen, a youthful indiscretion that he will one day closet in favor of a “normal” life.

“Dr. Wells,” Gideon alerts him, her voice smooth and assured, “Barry Allen has entered the building.”

“Thank you, Gideon,” he replies, moving quickly as he sits back down in his wheelchair. He settles into the plush seat without giving it much thought as he asks, “Cisco and Caitlin have gone home for the night?”

“Yes, Dr. Wells,” Gideon confirms.

His stomach tightens involuntarily, anticipation making his heart skip a beat. “Then it would appear Mr. Allen is here to see me. Is he in the cortex?”

“Barry Allen is currently occupying a chamber in the husk of the particle accelerator,” Gideon replies tonelessly. “Cell designation one-three-seven.”

The man known as Harrison Wells blinks, tilting his head to the side in consideration. While Barry has certainly made it a habit to visit their prisoners in the pipeline on a daily basis, there are only three cells that are currently occupied: Clyde Mardon in one-zero-one, Danton Black in one-zero-three, and most recently, Kyle Nimbus in one-zero-five.

“Gideon,” he says, “if you could please bring up the video feed from cell one-three-seven?”

“Of course,” Gideon replies, and the image appears instantly, stretching to fit across the entire wall.

Barry Allen sits in a corner of the room, his back scooted up against the wall. He looks small. Defeated. His legs are folded up, tucked against his chest, and his arms encircle his knees as he hugs them tightly. His head hangs low, face half-hidden behind his knees, and the dark, messy mop of hair obscures the rest of Harrison’s view. His shoulders are trembling, and his fingers spasm without rhythm, digging into his legs where he grips them. He is crying.

Harrison stares at the image on the screen without blinking. “Gideon,” he says, “please outline all pertinent events which occurred to Barry Allen for me, starting from when he left S.T.A.R. Labs earlier today.”

“As you wish, Dr. Wells,” the AI replies. Barry’s image shrinks, shuffling down to a delegated corner of the screen as Gideon proceeds to bring up a new series of videos. The videos pop up chronologically, illustrating her words as she says, “Barry Allen left S.T.A.R. Labs at approximately eleven-hundred hours. He prevented the robbery of an armored car taking place at 4th Street and Collins Avenue. He carried one of the guards who was injured in the altercation to Saint Andrews Hospital. He received a call from the Central City Police Department, asking him to work on his day off. He met with Detective Joe West and Captain David Singh at the scene of the crime. He accompanied Detective West back to Central City Police Department. He met with both Iris West and Felicity Smoak at Central City Police Department. He declined a lunch invitation from Iris West and Felicity Smoak. He returned to S.T.A.R. Labs approximately five minutes ago.”

Each image shows Barry, carrying out the actions as Gideon announces them, with the final footage showing a blur of movement zipping through the entrance of S.T.A.R. Labs. Throughout the entire day, the expression on the young man’s face is closed off – his eyes are shuttered, his jaw is clenched. Whatever happened to cause this reaction must have occurred between his leaving S.T.A.R. Labs in the morning and the robbery he’d prevented. 

“Gideon, my dear,” he says, “Please enlarge the footage of the robbery that took place this morning.”

Ever helpful, the AI replies, “Yes, Dr. Wells.” 

Harrison quickly scans the footage as it plays through, looking for anything that would cause such an extreme reaction in Barry Allen. Nothing seems out of place, though he does note a moment where Barry pauses, taking a step toward one of the criminals who is sprawled across the pavement. This in and of itself wouldn’t be odd, save for the fact that a different criminal has just shot the guard. That Barry is reaching for this man on the ground, rather than at the side of the civilian who may be dying? Quite telling.

Though he cannot see the face of the criminal on the ground, the man known as Harrison Wells would bet a year of his time that Barry Allen has just discovered Leonard Snart’s criminal ties.

Snart – it can’t be anyone else – raises his gun and takes a potshot at Barry. Barry disappears, and now he is by the guard’s side, attempting to staunch the blood flow with his gloved hands.

Harrison glances at the screen he has been ignoring, at the tiny image of Barry Allen, shoulders shaking, crying silently in an empty prison cell. Something white and angry twists in his gut but he ignores it. Instead, he smiles, a slow, genuinely delighted twist of his lips. Two years of waiting for Leonard Snart to slip up, for Barry to discover the truth. This outcome? Better than anything even he could have planned.

“Thank you, Gideon,” he says. “That will be all.”

The images on the screen are abruptly cut off, the blank, white wall returning in less time than it takes him to blink. He turns his chair, angling it through the open doorway, and closes the room behind him. Then he heads down the hall to the pipeline at a steady, sedate pace.

***

In a nondescript warehouse at the edge of Central City, having made certain they were not followed, four men regroup from the morning’s curious failure. Three of them are agitated, showing signs of nervousness as they fidget, shifting and bustling around the poorly lit room without point or purpose. 

Leonard Snart is not anxious. He is not nervous or afraid or even unsettled. His fingers fly with unerring accuracy across the keyboard of a laptop he’d had the foresight to procure for this job, as he works to access the video footage from the scene of the ruined heist. His eyes gleam, reflecting the light from the monitor, and he breathes in, a slow, deep breath. He holds it until his lungs shudder, an aching protest, then releases it. He draws in another controlled breath, and marvels because he feels – whole.

“There’s been some rumors the last few weeks,” one of the men says. _Robert_ , a corner of Len’s mind contributes helpfully. _His name is Robert Paulson. People call him Big Bob._

“Yeah,” another agrees. _His given name is Evan Freedman_ , Len’s mind supplies without prompting. _People call him Freebie_. “People have seen a red blur, tearing through the street.”

“What the hell is it, man?” Big Bob asks, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other.

“Maybe it was a drone?” Freebie suggests.

“Some top secret army thing,” Big Bob agrees.

Len cuts off their muttered musings cleanly. “When I was a kid,” he says, “my grandfather used to take my sister and me to this diner, the Motorcar. Food was crap, but the view? The view was great.” He smirks, a tiny little thing, and the expression feels like coming home. “It’s right across from the Central City Precinct.”

The man are silent as they listen, spellbound. They have no choice in this. This is his heist.

“I still go there,” Len continues, and his constant keystrokes are a steady counterpoint to his words. “I listen to their radios. I learn their response times. There are forty banks in Central City, each of them within sixty seconds of police response.”

Bob and Freebie glance at one another, curious as to where this impromptu lesson in heist planning is coming from. The last man, J – damnit, what is his name? – frowns. It doesn’t matter. Whatever they may feel in this moment, in the end, they will follow his rules.

“Once the armored car made the call, we had one hundred and eighty two seconds before any cop could have gotten to the scene. That’s the advantage of hitting a moving target. No one could have gotten there fast enough to stop us–” There, he’s finally gained access to the footage he’s after, and he quickly pulls up the right timestamp. “–but _someone_ did.”

These men don’t know him, not really. They have heard rumors – his reputation is his most valuable currency – but if he’s honest with himself, he has done nothing in these few weeks to cement himself in their minds as someone to follow without question. Leonard Snart is going to be _painfully_ honest here – it’s embarrassing. Almost a month of working together with these men, and they still don’t realize that his word? His word is _law_.

“You lost your cool,” he says to the man in question. J starts, realizing that he is being taken to task for his itchy trigger finger. Len raises an eyebrow and explains slowly, like he’s speaking to a wayward child, “We don’t need the heat. You know the rules. No guards, no cops.”

“The heat?” J blurts, indignant. “What the fuck do you think that blur is, Snart?” The man shakes his head, an angry sneer on his lips and says, “You know what? Screw this! Screw you!” He takes a threatening step forward and hisses, “I’m out.”

Without missing a beat, Leonard Snart draws his gun in a smooth movement, close enough to his target that he doesn’t even need his full attention to aim. He pulls the trigger, seamlessly shifting his weight to take the recoil, and J crumples to the ground, dead. Blood pools around the body, staining the concrete floor. Head shots are always messy, bits of brain matter splattered as far as the wall some ten feet away.

“Well, if you're out, you're out,” he says lightly to the cooling corpse. He addresses Big Bob and Freebie, ignoring their twin expressions of fear and disbelief. “This blur? This isn’t some monster under the bed, gentleman. This is a man.”

Len stares at the screen, pausing the video with the tap of a button. The frame shows a hazy figure in red, his movements so incredibly, inhumanly fast that his afterimage appears as a streak behind him. It’s amazing. 

_It’s impossible._ Len hears the words in his head and it sounds just like Barry. It’s a whisper, an echo, but it seems so real that for a moment he is tempted to glance over his shoulder, just to see if the younger man is standing there. He doesn’t. He will not, cannot, show any signs of weakness in front of these men.

Instead, he steps around the counter where his laptop rests, kneeling down and riffling through the dead man’s pockets. He fishes out a wallet – fucking idiot, who brings two forms of identification to a heist? – and flips it open. He holds it up, tilting it to get a clear view of the name on license.

 _Jerry Lukeman. That’s right._ Len grins, all teeth, rolling his shoulders as he tosses the wallet on top of the corpse. He isn’t concerned about fingerprints – he’ll burn the body shortly, then bury the bones.

Leonard Snart’s eyes flash. He feels it. It sings in his blood. It itches beneath his skin. It squeezes his heart with steady, clawed fingers and urges him forward. This drive, this directive, this purpose. It’s been so long he’d forgotten what it was a like, to know what he wants. To take the steps necessary to achieve his goals. He saunters back to the laptop and stares hard at the image frozen there. “Time to up our game,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t spare another thought for the late Jerry Lukeman, save a moment of appreciation for the dark irony: his nickname? Lucky. 

***

When the man known as Harrison Wells reaches the pipeline prison, the first thing he hears is a muted sniff. If he hadn’t already known Barry Allen was there, he might have dismissed the noise as his imagination. Instead, he purposefully directs his wheelchair to the entrance of cell one-three-seven. It appears the young man hasn’t moved at all in the time it’s taken Harrison to get here.

There is the slightest hitch in Barry’s breathing, the only indication that he is aware of Harrison’s presence.

Harrison steers his wheelchair so that he sits next to where Barry is curled against the wall. He doesn’t say anything, nor does he make any move to touch the young man. He simply sits there, a solid, unassuming guardian, and allows Barry to silently cry.

They sit like that for nearly an hour. Neither of them speaks, and the only sounds that occasionally punctuate the silence are tiny, quiet sniffles. Barry’s shoulders relax, little by little, as he grows accustomed to Harrison’s presence. As he realizes that no one is going to push him for answers or explanations. As he begins to feel – safe.

Slowly, deliberately, the man known as Harrison Wells shifts in his chair, leaning to the side slightly as he dangles his hand over the armrest. He reaches down, and his fingers come into contact with the nape of Barry’s neck. Barry tenses, but does not move away.

Without speaking, Harrison’s hand curls lightly around the back of Barry’s neck. His thumb strokes the skin there, a gentle comfort. The young man says nothing, but after a moment, he shifts slightly. His shoulder bumps against the side of Harrison’s wheelchair, the side of his head coming to rest firmly against Harrison’s arm.

Barry lets out a small, tired sigh, and Harrison can feel the tiny, emotional tremors that wrack his frame, imperceptible to the naked eye.

They continue to sit in silence, long into the night. At some point Barry, exhausted, falls asleep. He’s still leaning against the side of the wheelchair, and Harrison’s arm has become his pillow.

Harrison looks down at the mop of unruly dark hair from where he sits. If he didn’t have advanced healing, he knows his arm would have lost circulation hours ago. Still, he cannot help the simmer of satisfaction he feels. Perhaps he does find Barry Allen far more enticing than he should. Perhaps his own, physical reactions are going surprise him on occasion. It doesn’t matter because Barry – preciously young, delightfully naïve – Barry Allen trusts _him_. Cares for _him_.

Caring might be a knife, ready to dig into his heart, but the man known as Harrison Wells cannot help but grin, because every knife is double-edged, and the same blade that threatens to cut him? It’s just as easily _reversed_.

***

The first thing that hits Leonard Snart when he opens the door of his hotel room is the smell – the bitter, musty foulness of old beer reminds him of piss. It mingles with the pungent, overbearing scent of sweat-soaked sheets, a cocktail of fetid human stink. 

The second thing that hits Leonard Snart is the knowledge that if his sister or Barry saw him now, saw how far he has fallen, how very pathetic he’s become, they would look on him with shame, with pity. His stomach churns, nausea roiling beneath the surface, and he honestly can’t tell how much of it is from the smell, and how much of it is from picturing Lisa’s disappointed expression.

Stepping inside and closing the door behind him, he surveys the room through narrow eyes. He drops his chin to his chest, rolls his head in a full circle, and lets out a quiet grunt as his neck pops and crackles in response. He squares his shoulders and gets to work. 

First, the empty bottles. He sweeps them by the armload into plastic trash bags he’d picked up on his return drive. Pizza boxes are emptied in a similar matter, insides gutted into the bags before he folds the cardboard, shredding each box with hateful intensity. Empty wrappers, half-eaten contents, crumpled and tossed without care. 

He grabs a used towel from the bathroom floor and uses it to mop up the mess of glass and beer on the kitchenette floor. He kneels beside the trashcan there and very deliberately picks up each of the bottle caps with steady hands. When he has a handful gathered, he drops them into trash bag where they clink and clatter against the glass beer bottles, and he repeats this process until the floor is clean.

As his hands works, his mind doesn’t stay idle. It races. It makes connections, offers plans and contingencies, whispers possibilities. The man in red – the Streak, as the internet has dubbed him – is an anomaly. It’s unclear where he came from or why. There are reports around the city of his presence at crime scenes and disasters, starting nearly a month ago. People who have been inexplicably saved from burning buildings who have no idea how they ended up on the streets. Robbers who swear that one moment, they were making a getaway and the next, they find themselves cuffed in the back of the pursuing officers' cars. It fits with the tenderhearted weakness Len saw earlier today.

It doesn’t fit with the killing of Nora Allen.

Leonard Snart stuffs his dirty clothes into a separate bag; he’ll take them to the Laundromat in the morning. He cracks open the windows a few inches, letting in the cool October air. It chills him, but he’s well accustomed to the bite. The air is clean, and it clears away most of the stink. A trace lingers, but it will fade over the next few days.

His hotel room is clean, or at least as clean as its going to get without a thorough bleaching. He reaches for the phone, dials down to the desk, and says to the woman who picks up, “My sheets are dirty. Send someone up with a fresh set.” Hanging up the landline, an ancient relic that never fails to remind him of the one that sat next to his couch in his childhood living room, he makes short work of stripping the bed down. Comforter, sheets, pillowcases, all pulled from the mattress, releasing a quick burst of odor as he unceremoniously piles them on the floor.

His mind returns to the Streak. Penance, perhaps? If this man had killed her years ago – accidentally? Some kind of mistake? – and had decided to make up for it by playing the hero, that would make sense. Or perhaps this man isn’t the original killer? The lightning, the speed, events set into motion in an instant –coincidences too strong to dismiss. But why wait fourteen years to return? Maybe the Streak is connected to the original killer in a different way – a son, perhaps? A family mutation? A freakish, unnatural speed passed down to him genetically?

Leonard Snart needs information. He needs to know more.

There is a knock on the door. He answers and a tiny woman with dark hair and brown eyes stands there, shuffling her feet as she hefts an armload of clean sheets. She peeks into the room, her eyes widening at the pile on the floor, and she makes a disapproving clucking noise at him. Amused, he allows her to bully her way into the room, mumbling a steady stream of what sounds like Russian under her breath. In no time, she has the sheets on the bed, and she gathers up the dirty ones and sweeps out of the room without once looking in his direction.

Leonard Snart shakes his head, then sits down on the freshly made bed, feeling better than he has in months. He goes to the refrigerator, opening it and eyeing the two six-packs of beer that sit innocently on the shelf. He knows with the amount he’s been drinking, if he cuts himself off cold turkey, he’ll likely have a few uncomfortable weeks as he detoxes. He contemplates the beer and sighs – one beer a night for the next twelve days. That should simultaneously help him from going into a serious case of withdrawal and help lower his tolerance back down to normal levels.

He frowns faintly, pondering his next course of action. To attract the attention of this Streak, he will have to commit a crime. It’s an easy enough thing, as he didn’t get the diamond he was after from the armored car, and he does still have a reputation to uphold. But he’ll need a weapon of some sort – something that can stop this impossible man in his tracks. Bullets are useless, the Streak is too fast. To stop an impossible man he’ll need –

There is another knock on the door. Len cocks his head to the side, stands, and moves swiftly, peeking out the spy hole with one eye.

It’s the Russian cleaning woman from before. She still looks agitated, but she’s pulling a cleaning cart behind her with one hand. The other clutches what appears to be a puffy, folded square of fresh comforter, keeping it tucked firmly against her side and under her arm. 

He glances at the bed, eyeing the naked pillows, then figures, what the hell? She’s already here.

He opens the door and she sweeps past him, darting through his room at near lightning speeds. She adds the comforter to the bed, dresses the pillows with clean cases, and swaps the dirty towels in his bathroom with fresh ones. Still muttering her constant stream of incomprehensible Russian, a grumpy counterpoint to her furious cleaning, she gathers up the trash bags he has piled by the can in the kitchen. She tosses them into the bottom of her cart, and proceeds to attack every flat surface with a spray bottle of disinfectant, wiping away the ring stains left by his beer bottles.

Satisfied with her work, she pulls her cart from the room and moves to close the door. She pauses, looks at him through dark, narrow eyes, and points angrily at the “Do Not Disturb” sign handing on the handle. Her lips purse into a frown and she shakes her head, wagging her finger at him as if he’s a particularly naughty child. Without another word, she slams the door shut, leaving him standing in a corner of the room, wondering what the fuck just happened.

Leonard Snart looks around his clean room, shakes his own head wryly. He chuckles, a dry, rusty sounds that surprises him, even as he moves to his refrigerator and pulls out a single beer.

His finds his return to his earlier train of thought an easy one, picking up smoothly from when he was interrupted. In the end, it doesn’t matter if the Streak killed Nora Allen or not, because he _knows_ something about it. He must. Len needs more information, and his mind is quickly forming a plan on how to get it. To stop an impossible man he’ll need an impossible weapon.

He pulls out his cell phone. 

And if it turns out the Streak is responsible?

He makes a call.

He’s done a lot of nasty things in his time. It’s cold comfort, but this time? This time he plans to do them for the right reasons.

Len smiles. It’s an ugly expression. 

***


	18. [3/5] Episode 4: The Fox

***

The man known as Harrison Wells has not slept. Beyond the fact that it’s a very difficult and rather uncomfortable act to pull off while sitting in a wheelchair, there’s also the issue of his legs moving. As a man pretending to be paralyzed from the waist down, sleeping in the presence of another human being is out of the question.

So when Barry Allen grumbles sleepy, incoherent nonsense, and begins to shift, Harrison cannot help but feel the faint stirrings of relief. By his estimation, the time is somewhere after midnight, and he is looking forward to a few hours of rest before returning to S.T.A.R. Labs in the morning. He isn’t as young as he once was, and pulling an all-nighter is not something he desires. He would have done it, of course, had it been necessary. 

He has no illusions about what kind of man he is. He’ll do a lot of things he might not enjoy out of necessity. 

“Whuza,” Barry mumbles.

“Feeling better, Mr. Allen?” Harrison asks, his voice full of amusement he can’t quite contain.

Abruptly Barry sits upright, slamming his back against the wall in his haste. The young man winces, then scrambles to his feet. “Dr. Wells!”

“Harrison,” he corrects with a small smirk. “Even if I hadn’t given you permission previously, I feel that anyone who has spent the better part of the night drooling on my arm is familiar enough with me to use my first name.”

The red flush rises instantly in Barry’s face. He looks at the wet spot on Harrison’s sleeve, and his expression is completely, totally mortified. His eyes dart around the room for an exit, before he seems to come to the realization that running away will not make the situation any better. He squares his shoulders for battle, then ruins the image by nervously nibbling his lower lip.

“I’m – um,” Barry stutters, bringing his hand up to rub the back of his neck self-consciously. “I’m really, really sorry about that. Yesterday was–” The expression on his face instantly falls as the events of the previous day hit him at once. “–brutal.”

The man known as Harrison Wells shakes his head, smiles faintly. “If a puddle of saliva was the worst thing I ever had to deal with, I’d consider myself fortunate. That said, are you all right, Barry? I don’t want to pry, but I’ve never seen you so distraught.” A lie, but not one that can be proven. The night he’d slaughtered Barry’s mother, child-Barry had been devastated as they dragged his father to the police car in handcuffs. His wide, frightened eyes had reflected those flashing red and blue lights, and so much emotion – confusion, heartbreak, terror. The world had ended for one little boy, who had no idea as to what or how or why it happened.

To be fair, it had started as such a good night for the man known as Harrison Wells.

Barry bites his lip, misery in every line of his hunched shoulders. His eyes are bright with unshed tears and he stares pointedly at the ground, unable to meet Harrison’s eyes. “I. I just. Do you remember I told you about – um – that guy? The one who I was seeing before the – ah – accident?”

Harrison nods slowly, then realizing that Barry isn’t looking, clears his throat and says quietly, “Yes, I do. I take it yesterday – _involved_ him, somehow?”

“He. He was one of the men at the robbery,” Barry whispers. His voice shakes unevenly, but even though he stutters and stops, loses some of his words and half of them tremble with a strange, rather horrible emotional intensity, he explains, “I – I stopped them. Knocked them down, and he. He took off his mask and I didn’t. I wasn’t thinking and I reached out to – I don’t know – touch him? See if he was real? And he. Um. He shot me. Or, um, shot _at_ me. And I can’t. I just. Everything about our relationship. It’s all a lie, isn’t it.”

The last sentence isn’t a question, so Harrison remains silent, allowing Barry to organize his thoughts. It seems once the young man has started, there is no stopping the tangled outpouring of words and feelings that left him such a wreck mere hours before.

“At the precinct, Joe had me flip through this book of mugshots. He’s in there. ‘Leonard Snart.’ I thought. I mean, his name is Leonard Coulter, only that’s a lie. He doesn’t live in Starling City, doesn’t own a bar. It’s all – made up. All bullshit. And I. I just _accepted_ it. Ate it up, like some dumb kid.”

“Joe _knows_ him. Is familiar enough with him – as a _criminal_ – that he knew his name, his rap sheet, his history, without looking it up. That’s. I was with him, on and off, for two years. He _knew_ that I work for the CCPD. He _knew_ that Joe is like my – my dad. Did he. I mean, was he with me because he could get information about the police from me?”

“How could I. I mean, how did I do that? Dismiss the inconsistencies? Because I – I didn’t want to see them? I can’t. I mean, there’s this conversation we had. I can’t get it out of my head. We were – talking. On the phone. And I asked him what he hated. Like, what was the worst thing he could think of. And he said, ‘solitary confinement.’ And instead of thinking – oh, maybe he’s been to prison – I excuse it. I dismiss it and think – oh, maybe he’s just trying to find a more manly way of saying he’s afraid of being alone.”

“That’s. That conversation is half the reason I make sure to visit Mardon and Black – and now Nimbus, I guess. Because the way he explained it to me made me ask my dad about it, and I didn’t. I don’t want anyone going through that. Because it does sound awful.”

“But that’s not the point. Not really. The point is the guy I – dated? Care about? – he’s a bad guy. I can’t. I can’t even confront him about it as me because it’s not like he’s made any effort to come and see me. Although I guess if he was trying to stay off police radar, he wouldn’t have been able to. Detective dad and all. But if I mattered to him, wouldn’t he have tried anyway? I don’t. I don’t know. It feels like. Like when I found out I had these abilities. Like the whole world just stopped making sense. Like nothing is real anymore.”

“I just. It’s a mess. I’m a mess.” Barry shakes his head, eyes still glued to the floor, and laughs. It’s a tiny, hysterical little hiccup, followed by: “I’m sorry I drooled on your arm.”

The man known as Harrison Wells takes a deep, slow breath as he mentally sorts through the overwhelming amount of information Barry has just dumped on him. It’s nothing he wasn’t previously aware of, but it is most interesting to hear about it in the young man’s own words. He tilts his head to the side and says, “Do you feel better having gotten that off your chest, or would you like my thoughts on the matter?”

Startled, Barry glances up. “I’m – um. You’re going to tell me to arrest him, because he’s a criminal, right? I know that. I know what I have to do.”

“No,” Harrison replies, shaking his head. “That’s not what I’m going to say. It seems to me that you care – deeply – for this man. You don’t spend two years with someone, even on and off, and not have some sort of feeling there. I imagine it’s the same for him.”

Barry blinks, clearly not having expected anyone to acknowledge his prior relationship in any sort of positive light. It’s important though, Harrison knows, to establish himself as a fair and neutral party in this. To give advice that isn’t biased. The best manipulations, after all, come from showing someone the truth and _still_ having them choose the outcome that he desires.

“We are scientists, are we not?” he asks Barry with a small smile. “We deal in facts, then use those facts to form our theories.” He holds up his hand, ticking off his fingers to illustrate each point. “Fact: relationships are an investment. The pair of you invested two years in one another. That isn’t done on a whim. Fact: he lied to you. He lied about his name, his home, his job. But by the sounds of the conversation you had on solitary confinement, he didn’t lie to you about his feelings on certain things. After all, no one can lie all the time.”

He relishes the taste of those particular words in his mouth. Really, the statement is so true it’s almost a physical pain to speak it aloud.

He continues, relentless, “Fact: his lies kept you together. If he’d told you the truth, you would have been obligated to make a decision based on your own moral code. To continue dating a criminal, when you hold yourself to a high standard in regards to the law and what is right. Or, to turn on your own emotions and feelings, and give up the relationship that clearly even now affects you. By taking away that choice, he was giving you the easy way out. Of course, he was also giving himself the easy way out, as I imagine he didn’t want to lose you.”

Holding up a fourth finger, Harrison says, “Fact: right now, you feel angry because you were lied to. You feel stupid because you believed those lies. Your ability to make decisions is impaired, and you can tell yourself that your relationship didn’t matter, but that would be compounding a lie with a secondary lie. It did matter, clearly, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Throughout the entire speech, Harrison carefully watches Barry’s expression. The young man would be a terrible poker player, and Harrison can clearly see each shift as it happens. First, the tremulous, muted fear, illustrated by the darting of his eyes and the flat pinch of his lips – the expression that says whatever Harrison is going to say is nothing he’s not already thought of and dismissed. The expression that says Barry knows what he needs to do, and it will hurt, and he hates having to make this choice.

Then, as Harrison begins to tick off each point, there is a wary, hesitant hope, shown as his eyes cease their frantic movements and widen slightly, and the way his lips part, surprised. This is the expression that tells Harrison that Barry need this – this confirmation that a relationship he invested his heart into, while based on a series of unending lies, wasn’t a lie in and of itself. That it is possible for one person to lie to another and still _care_.

Finally, a strange combination of the two expressions. Hopeful fear, the exact expression Harrison has been looking to achieve, as Barry asks him, hushed, reverent, “What do I do?”

Harrison shakes his head again, lowering his hand, and replies, “As I have told you before, and will likely tell you again, I cannot make your decisions for you. Ultimately, all I can do is offer you my thoughts. And my thoughts are this: you may care for this man, but never lose sight of the fact that he is a criminal. If he hasn’t quit his occupation by now, it’s unlikely he ever will. And as a criminal, he is capable of doing things that will upset you – lying, stealing, perhaps even killing?”

Barry bites his lip, hard, and slowly nods his head. “I. Joe told me a little, about his crimes. He. He kills. Not indiscriminantly, but.”

“But not solely in defense of his own life, either,” Harrison concludes, watching Barry fidget uncomfortably. “You asked me what to do? Answer me this. Can you continue a relationship with a man who you now know is a killer? Can you embrace him at the cost of someone else’s life?”

Harrison raises up a single finger, cutting Barry off before he can respond. “Ah. I don’t need an answer from you, Mr. Allen. This isn’t a test. It’s something you need to decide for yourself.”

Barry nods his head, clearly seeing the wisdom in Harrison’s advice. Then, he smiles. It’s a weak smile, a trembling, pathetic little thing. It doesn’t compare to the smiles he gives when he’s truly happy, but it’s certainly a start. The young man smiles, his frail, hesitant little smile, and says quietly. “Barry. Anyone I drool on. Um. They have to call me Barry.” Then, softer, “Thank you for listening, Harrison.”

Taking part in a conversation that leaves the Flash an emotional, physical wreck would have been satisfying in the short term. Building the Flash up, making him stronger, with Harrison Wells as one of his supporting pillars? In the long term, ultimately, he will look back on this conversation and deem it priceless.

***

“You wanted state of the art, Snart,” the rat-faced man says, bowing with a little flourish. If he’d had a top hat, he’d be tipping it. “I bring you state of the art, my good sir.”

Leonard Snart is currently at a warehouse on the other side of town. It’s late, but when his best contacts had led him to this no-name dealer who claimed to have stolen top of the line weapons from S.T.A.R. Labs, there was no way he was waiting until morning to see them.

He browses the weapons at leisure. There are several guns he’s seen before, and he dismisses them out of hand. Bullets are useless, though he does take a moment to contemplate the rocket launcher.

The weapons he’s most interested in are the ones with S.T.A.R. Labs logo emblazoned on the metal cases. There aren’t many of them, but he gives them close scrutiny, taking in their bulk as compared to traditional firearms, examining their streamlined aesthetic. _Whoever designed these certainly has a flair for the dramatic_ , he muses appreciatively. Taking note of the logo, he reaches for that weapon. He lifts it, judging its weight, and asks, “What’s this?” 

“It might not look like much,” the dealer replies quickly, “but never judge a book by its cover, you know? Fires highly concentrated, combustible liquid fuel that ignites on contact with the air.”

A glorified, handheld flamethrower. Mick has killed men for less.

Len gently places the weapon down, nestling it with care back into its case. “I don’t need to heat things up,” he says as he continues to browse. “I need to slow them down.” Another weapon sporting the S.T.A.R. Labs logo catches his eye and he strides over to it. It’s beautiful, all sleek blue-gray metal, and cool to the touch.

He barely hears the dealer as he picks it up. It fits like heaven into his hands. “That’s the one, then,” the rat-faced man says, eager to make the sale. “You were drawn right to it. Easily stolen from S.T.A.R. Labs, with nothing but a skeleton security crew to guard the tech inside. Emits some sort of substance, not sure what.” Len rotates his wrist, testing the smoothness of the movement with the added weight of the weapon.

Rat-face continues, oblivious, “Like a white flame, but it’s not hot. It’s cold. Glasses look like they're made of the same tech.”

With his free hand, Len reaches out, running his fingers along the strange, reflective, blue-gray glasses. Smooth to the touch, and the oils from his fingers don’t leave a mark. “What are they for?” he asks, pulling them out of the case and flipping them open. They slide onto his face easily, and the world becomes a lovely, soft shade of navy blue.

“The glare,” the dealer says. “You’ll see.”

“Who else knows you took this?” Len asks.

“Just us,” comes the quick reply. It’s an offhanded, thoughtless remark. It rings of truth.

“No.” Leonard Snart spins on his heel, aiming the coldgun at the other man and pulling the trigger. There is no recoil in the traditional sense, just a numbing vibration that shoots up his arm, leaving him unsteady. It’s different from any other weapon he has ever used, but he imagines he can grow accustomed to it with time. The glare is bright, even through the glasses, but it isn’t unbearable.

“Just me,” he continues. He takes a few steps forward, pulling off the glasses as he examines the man’s body with a critical eye. It looks like frostbite. Nearly instantaneous frostbite, and deadly. He kneels by the man’s side, touching two fingers to his neck. No pulse, and his skin is solid, frigid to the touch.

Len glances at the gun, contemplating how he might be able to holster it. None of his coats are capable of concealing its bulk except – 

His parka. Perfect. It’s still in the trunk of his rental from his last stakeout.

Deciding to hurry a little, just in case the dealer had other clients scheduled to stop by tonight, Leonard Snart gathers the case of the coldgun and pops it in his trunk. He shrugs on his parka, a comfortable, warm weight that settles on his shoulders, and hides his new weapon within the folds of the coat. 

He moves quickly. He takes the other S.T.A.R. Labs tech, the flamethrower and a handful of what appear to be grenades. He loads whatever guns will fit in the trunk, arms full of ammunition, and after a moment of deliberation, he tucks the rocket launcher in the back seat.

Conveniently, there are several cans of gasoline in the corner of the warehouse. He douses the building quickly. On his way out, he glances down at the corpse. “Sorry, pal,” Len says, not feeling particularly sorry at all. It’s a means to an end, and he has an impossible man to hunt. Casualties are to be expected in any war.

Outside the warehouse, he strikes a match and drops it to the trail of gas he’s left on the ground. He watches the flames lick the ground, yellow and blue and speeding, spreading to every dry bit of wood and combustible bit of fuel in the building. He waits only long enough to make sure the fire will not go out easily, then slides into the front seat of his rental and drives away.

He doesn’t speed on the way back to his hotel room, listening to the sounds of sirens in the background. He wonders if the Streak will see his handiwork tonight. Probably not. No civilians for the tender, bleeding heart to rescue.

Maybe next time. He files the thought away.

***

It’s around noon the next day that the man known as Harrison Wells sees Barry again. The young man in question has a lovely, blonde woman by his side, one who Harrison instantly recognizes. Felicity Smoak. From this century, he knows her for her scientific and technological accomplishments. In the future, she is a footnote in the history books, tied closely to all documents on the Green Arrow.

He observes the pair walking side by side through the long, thin corridors as Barry gives her the tour. Neither of them notice him as they move into the cortex. Harrison takes a moment to observe Barry. His eyes are no longer red-rimmed and sore from his constant crying, and his voice seems steady as he speaks. If Harrison hadn’t witnessed his breakdown the day before, he’d be hard pressed to pinpoint evidence of Barry’s suffering.

“And this,” Barry says, pride evident in his voice, “is where my team monitors the police bands for criminal activity. We can track anything that's happening in the city. Oh, hey, check this out.” He pauses, either for effect or because he’s pointing at something. “We've got our own satellite.”

“I know,” Felicity replies lightly. “I've hacked into it from time to time.”

“Rude.” Ah, and there’s Cisco. Considering the young man’s penchant for lovely women, it’s surprising to Harrison that he isn’t more flirtatious with this one. Or perhaps his comment is the verbal equivalent of pulling pigtails.

“Which is all well and good, but I'm just wondering how much of our operation she needs to know about...?” Caitlin’s voice is a bit strained, and she’s clearly directing her ire at Barry. 

“I work in the computer science department for Queen Consolidated, a multimillion-dollar company. I'm _really_ good at keeping secrets,” Felicity replies quickly.

“Yeah,” Barry adds, a bit thoughtlessly. “Felicity works with the Arrow.”

“Sweet!” Cisco says, instantly a fanboy.

“And you apparently are not so good with that secret thing,” Felicity grumbles.

“Now it's all making sense,” Cisco says. “You know who the Arrow is.” Then, “Wait. Do _you_ know who the Arrow is?”

“Uh,” comes Barry’s clever reply.

“Let's just say that my team has a similar set up, but with more pointy objects,” Felicity interjects, coming swiftly to Barry’s rescue. 

Because Harrison knows that Cisco will likely not be deterred with just that, he chooses to make his entrance. He directs his wheelchair through the door to the cortex and says, “Welcome, Ms. Smoak.”

“Dr. Wells?” Felicity’s eyes widen slightly, a comical expression on her lovely, heart-shaped face. Her voice hits a higher octave as she repeats, stunned, “ _The_ Dr. Wells?”

“Please,” he replies with a genial smile, “Call me Harrison, Felicity.”

Out of the corner of Harrison’s eye, he catches an almost – jealous? – look on Barry’s face. It’s only visible for a moment before the young man’s expression shifts back to polite attentiveness. How unexpectedly – delightful.

“Oh?” Felicity says, her eyes going round with shock and delight. “You – you know who I am?”

Easily pulling up the information from his near eidetic memory, the man known as Harrison Wells recites, “Ranked second in the National Informative Technology competition at age nineteen, graduated M.I.T. with a masters degree in cyber security and computer sciences. I know who you are.” And there, that flash on Barry’s face again. Angry? Betrayed? Harrison explains, “I keep an eye out for promising talent in all scientific fields. It's what brought me Cisco and Caitlin. I foresaw great things from you.”

“Speaking of great things,” Barry interrupts, almost rudely, “Want to see something cool?”

While someone else might take offense to the willful obstruction of their conversation, Harrison instead feels a momentary elation. Pulling Ms. Smoak’s attention back to Barry’s amazing ability isn’t a ploy for her attention. It’s a distraction, to take her attention away from Harrison.

Barry’s unsubtle manipulations are really rather adorable. And the fact that he isn’t willing to share Harrison’s attention with a gorgeous, blonde woman? Rather telling.

As the team gathers around the laboratory where Cisco’s industrial-strength treadmill resides, and Barry proceeds to show off for his visiting friend, Harrison listens with a half-ear to the conversation. His eyes remain on Barry Allen, watching him run. It’s a sweet torment, to watch that power, that speed, and not access his own.

One of Felicity’s comments pull him back to full awareness, her incessant questioning reminding him a little of Barry’s uncontrollable babble. “If everything about him is sped up, is he going to age faster? What would happen if he ran too fast? I mean, would he just be running, and then, POOF! He’s dust in a red costume?”

Harrison smiles, not taking his eyes from Barry’s form as he responds, “Everything we do here at S.T.A.R. Labs is to protect Barry Allen. Trust us, Felicity. He is in very good hands here.”

“Want to see how fast I can run backwards?” Barry calls out. Then, a crash, not an uncommon occurrence these days as he is flung from the treadmill. A low, pained moan comes from the pile of padding Cisco keeps set up for that reason.

“Don’t worry,” Caitlin says wryly, in response to Felicity’s startled gasp. “He heals quickly, too.”

***


	19. [4/5] Episode 4: The Hound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, apparently this is the episode that never ends. There's some violence at the end of this chapter, so the appropriate tag has been added above. Most things are pretty much wrapped up, but there's one more chapter afoot with Cisco and Barry's confrontation, and some Eo/Wells & Barry conversation about Len, because poor Baer was entirely too emotionally and physically drained at the end of this to deal with any more feels :) Also, Cisco needs to stew for a chapter. That's only fair.
> 
> 02/12/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).

***

Leonard Snart lounges against the windowsill. He is motionless. He does not fidget in place, or roll his shoulders, or crack his neck. There is blood on his fingers, sticky and red. He stares at his hands, unblinking. 

“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” he says absently. He doesn’t ask why the other man is in town. He doesn’t question whether it’s for business or pleasure. He doesn’t care because in the end? It really doesn’t matter. 

“I know it’s been a while since we pulled that job,” Len continues. “I know it didn’t go so well for you, and I know I said we were finished.”

He flexes his fingers. Bloody and red. In his mind he hears the scream. Such a strange, distorted sound. The flash of his gun, cold blue-gray metal. The sound a gunshot, the tinkle of a bullet casing as it hits the ground. Then, that scream, and scarlet crusted beneath his fingernails. Half of him is horrified. Half of him can’t stop grinning.

“But things have changed.”

***

Two days before this conversation takes place, Cisco Ramon stands at attention outside one of the tech-cages in S.T.A.R. Labs. His face is downcast, a curtain of dark hair obscuring his eyes. His hunkers in on himself, his shoulders curving forward as if he can protect himself from the verbal thrashing he is currently receiving.

He can’t, of course. The man known as Harrison Wells is _furious_.

“How _long_?” Harrison hisses. His eyes narrow behind the thick frames of his glasses, his hands clenching into fists at the side of his wheelchair. This is the sort of anger he feels so rarely. In most cases, he can contain the rage, redirect and repurpose it for his own needs. In most cases, he can use it to his own advantage. 

This is not most cases. 

“How long has it been _missing_?”

This is a slow, hot pulsing beneath his skin. This is anger and energy. It crackles and burns and he has so much of it – he could run around the circumference of this planet in three hours flat and still have to fight to keep his hands from wrapping around Cisco’s fool neck. 

Cisco looks up at him, dark lashes framing dark eyes, miserable. He wrings his hands together anxiously. “I don’t know.”

Calming breaths. He needs to take calming breaths. This situation? It can be worse. An unknown party with unfettered access to a weapon specifically designed to fight speedsters. A weapon that can slow down a speedster’s regeneration on a cellular level. A weapon aimed at Barry Allen, still young, still learning to tap and harness his true abilities.

The man known as Harrison Wells has lived for fifteen years in an archaic past, marooned without a single person who knows his name or recognizes his true value. This punishment correlates directly to his own actions, all those years ago, and leaves him with no one but himself to blame. He doesn’t, of course. Mistakes happen and he can only move forward in an attempt to correct this reality, but the point stands: he is a poster-child for “It can be worse.”

“Cisco,” Harrison says, unable to keep the anger in his voice entirely under control. “I will ask you again. And when I do, I expect a more specific answer than ‘I don’t know.’ How long has this weapon been _gone_?”

“A day?” Cisco hazards, shaking his head helpless. “Maybe two? One of the janitors didn’t show up for work this morning. He was probably the one who took it.” The young man is close to tears and he raises his hands together, almost like a prayer. “I didn’t think–”

“No,” Harrison bites out. “You _didn’t_ think. Because if you had, you would have discussed with me first your desire to build something that could hurt _anyone_ , much less something specifically designed to harm _Barry Allen_. Were you not there yesterday, in full agreement with me when I told Ms. Smoak that everything we do here is to protect Barry? Did it perhaps slip your mind to say, ‘Oh, actually, there’s this thing that I was tinkering with. I’m pretty sure it can _kill_ him?’”

“I’m sorry,” Cisco replies. He shrinks in on himself, looking smaller and more hopeless with every word that Harrison spits out. “I’m sorry. If you could just let me explain–”

“You know how I feel about weapons, Cisco,” the man known as Harrison Wells says, gritting his teeth. He can feel the faint stirrings of an oncoming headache. As a metahuman who heals far more quickly than the average human being, it’s actually rather impressive that Cisco has pushed him to this point.

S.T.A.R. Labs does not deal in weapons technology – it never has and never will, save for a brief stint working with the very unpleasant General Wade Eiling in an experiment to induce psychic abilities in soldiers. Even that had been toeing the line he’d made for himself. Weapons technology means active scrutiny from government agencies, and while Eiling is military, he certainly is _not_ the brightest mind this century has to offer.

None of these thoughts show on his face as he continues relentlessly, “Weaponry is not the legacy of S.T.A.R. Labs, Cisco. You are going to finish cataloging our inventory and figure out what’s missing. And then? You will find a way to locate everything that has been stolen and you are going to do it _right now_.”

He spins his wheelchair, as abruptly as any cumbersome recliner on wheels can move, and heads down the hall. Distantly, he hears the pointed clicking of Caitlin’s heels on the tile floor as she moves to Cisco’s side. He imagines her offering silent comfort in the wake of his righteous fury.

Her voice is quiet, but it carries. “This thing you built,” she asks Cisco hesitantly, “What can it do?”

Cisco’s reply is just as quiet. There is something dark in his voice as he hedges, “Bad stuff.”

***

Having cased the museum where the Kahndaq diamond is on display, Leonard Snart has already decided that now is the time to put his plans in motion. He takes the tour of the museum a second time, well aware that it will send up red flags if anyone in the museum’s security is actually paying attention.

As the tour ends, he isn’t disappointed when he sees Detective Joe West staring down on him from a balcony. He smirks, pleased, as the man speaks into the radio cuffed to his shoulder, requesting backup. It’s standard policy, having IDed a perpetrator at a potential crime scene.

This museum has a police response time of seventy-four seconds. Leonard Snart is willing to bet money the man in red will be here a lot sooner. Still, there aren’t enough targets in this museum. He takes off, striding briskly through the museum’s doors and down the street. He keeps an eye out for Detective West as he crosses the road, his eyes coming to rest on a nearby theater. Perfect.

“Freeze, Snart! Police!” the good detective yells just as Len tugs his special glasses down onto his face. The world fades to blue.

“If you insist,” Len replies under his breath. He raises his hands in the air. In one of them, he holds his coldgun. Bracing himself against the numbing vibration it shoots up his arm, he takes aim at the street and pulls the trigger.

The reaction is instant, asphalt icing over and causing the first car that crosses it to spin out of control. Thankfully Detective West is quick on his feet and dives out of the way. Len might not be the best at interpersonal relationships, but even he is fairly certain that when avenging Barry’s mother, he probably shouldn’t accidentally kill any of Barry’s other parents in the process.

Still, he can’t make it look as though he’s taking it easy on Detective West, or the wrong sorts of people might start asking questions.

Leonard Snart spins and dashes through the open doors of the theater. The patrons who recognize his coldgun as a weapon point and scream, causing a mess of panic and mass hysteria. In mere moments, people are scattering in all directions, trying to move themselves out of his line of fire. It doesn’t bother him. This setting is exactly what he’s after.

“Snart!” West calls out again, and Len smiles. 

“If you tell me to freeze again,” Len says mildly, loosely aiming his coldgun at the other man, “I won’t be held responsible for my own actions, Detective.”

Internally, Leonard Snart is counting down the seconds. Three. Two. One.

He fires a short burst of ice at West, close enough to be uncomfortable, but just slightly skewed in case his internal countdown is off. If the ice hits, the man will have will have a serious case of frostbite on one of his arms. Incredibly painful, but not life threatening. Perhaps this is a gamble he shouldn’t be taking, but Len doesn’t think it will come to that.

He isn’t disappointed.

There, the blur of red, the lightning that teases the corners of his eyes. That crackling scent, burning ozone. The impossible man, an afterimage with a bolt of lightning on his chest. His stream of ice hits the Streak as the vibrating man pushes West to safety. Len is blocked from a clearer view as both West and the man in red land behind thick, aesthetic columns of marble that reach from the ceiling to the floor.

“You okay?” Len hears the detective call out. It’s faint, barely audible above the screaming nonsense of nearby pedestrians.

“Aah!” the man hisses, his voice distorted. “It burns!”

Interesting. Len’s mind picks up and discards theories left and right. Detective West already knows the Streak. Most likely cause of this familiarity: the Streak has been assisting the police periodically for at least a month. He also clearly listens in on the police’s radio, possibly because it’s the easiest way of learning about crimes as they are reported. Or, perhaps West is this man’s inside edge to the CCPD? If West is expressing concern over an injury, it’s not an impossible leap of logic.

Does West have something to do with Nora Allen’s murder? Does West suspect that this Streak and Barry’s impossible lightning man from fourteen years ago are one and the same? West seems to genuinely love Barry, so it’s unlikely he’d be aware of such a connection and still work with the Streak. Or perhaps, Len muses, eyes narrowing, perhaps it’s a matter of keeping your friends close and your enemies closer.

More importantly, the man in red has been hit by his coldgun, and it isn’t a glancing blow. That same hit proved lethal against the weapon’s dealer the day before. Either the suit the man wears is special and absorbed most of the impact, or the man himself is capable of taking more damage than the average human being.

Leonard Snart grins. Either way, he’s having a _blast_.

He fires at the pillar that conceals the Streak, watching the man dart to a different hiding spot. He’s still impossibly fast, but the image he leaves behind is noticeably more solid. Elated, Len can only conclude that the injury he’s sporting has slowed him down.

“A test run,” he says, loud enough for the Streak to hear. “Shall we?”

Len picks three targets – three civilians dashing blindly in opposite directions – and fires. First, the man stumbling up the stairs. Next, the couple staggering across the open hall. Finally, the woman clutching her child to her chest in a futile attempt at protection. Each one in his sights as he fires and pivots, fires and pivots. The Streak dashes, grabbing each of them just before the ice hits, moving them to safety.

“Is this penance?” he says to the blur of a man. “Are you making up for something, perhaps?”

“What are you talking about?” the man yells back, his distorted voice bouncing off the acoustics of the theater’s walls as he runs.

“Answer me one question,” Len says in reply. “Just one, and I’ll leave. Were you there?”

“Was I where?” the Streak says, a red blur across the room.

Len has the impossible man in his sights, but does not fire. Not yet. “Fourteen years ago,” he says calmly. He’s always been good at reading people, and so he watches. “Were you there?” The statement is purposefully vague, because only someone intimately familiar with the crime will make the connection.

And the man in red? The impossible, lightning man with the tender, bleeding heart? He damns himself in an instant. He goes perfectly still, guilt and shock in every line of his vibrating form.

Furious, Len’s vision filters down to a narrow, blue tunnel. The vicious impulses he’s been repressing return full force and he fires his coldgun in short, controlled bursts. The Streak responds, moving quickly, and the first two shots miss. Len’s final shot pins the man against the wall, freezing him momentary in place. The man in red with his inhuman voice, he cries out in pain. It isn’t enough.

Leonard Snart pulls his traditional sidearm from the holster concealed beneath his coat and fires once. The bullet hits the man in the shoulder, blood exploding from the wound and splattering the nearby wall. Len stalks forward, holstering his weapons as he shamelessly invades the other man’s personal space. Even this close, he still can’t make out any distinguishing features. The blurry vibration is the most effective mask he’s ever seen. Still, he doesn’t need to see the man’s face for what he has planned. He reaches forward with one hand and digs his fingers into the open wound.

“So you bleed just like the rest of us mere mortals,” Len says. He twists his fingers in the soft muscle, relishing in the Streak’s strangled scream. It’s a strange sound, like listening to an old school cassette tape on fast forward. Fascinated, he pushes his fingers deeper, burying them to the knuckle in the man’s flesh.

“Not so impossible now, are you, Scarlet?” Len hisses. The man struggles, but between the frostbite that would have killed anyone else and open wound in his shoulder, it’s a weak effort at best.

“Why–” the man whispers in his strange, distorted voice.

Len yanks his bloody fingers out of the hole in the man’s shoulder and decks him. The movement shatters the ice that pins the man to the wall and he crumples. It’s so satisfying that Len does it a second time, hauling the Streak up and propping him there before loosing a powerful blow that actually bruises his knuckles. It’s like therapy. All of the helplessness he feels, all of the anger and rage he is unable to shake, every failure that has ever haunted him – he puts it into his fists as he pounds away at the other man’s face.

“Because,” Len says, breathless, honest, “I hate you.”

“Snart!” Detective West yells some distance away. Len glances over to see the man’s gun trained on him. With a cocky grin at the older man, he releases his hold on the Streak, who slumps to the ground like a puppet with cut strings. Len takes a single step away, and West’s eyes dart frantically between the man at his feet and the exit a few feet away.

“You want to help your friend, don’t you, Detective?” Len asks casually. “But maybe you don’t want the CCPD to know you’re helping him? How about I leave you to it?”

West looks like he’s bitten into a particularly sour slice of lemon, but he nods once and holsters his gun. Len dashes for the door, sparing a single glance behind him as he goes. West kneels by the Streak’s battered form, hands trembling. It looks as though the impossible man is unconscious, because he’s no longer blurry. He’s just a crumpled, boneless heap. A fragile, mortal man like any other. 

Leonard Snart grins, elated, and takes off down the street, ducking into an alleyway and out of sight.

The best part about this entire endeavor? He’d left Big Bob and Freebie at the museum with specific instructions on how to steal the diamond while he kept the attention of both the police and the Streak. Even now, he can hear the sirens coming closer, and he knows that they are surrounding the theater – _not_ the museum.

Today is a success, in so many ways. Riding high on this feeling, he makes a split second decision. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and makes a call.

***

The man known as Harrison Wells sits by Barry’s bedside in the infirmary. He debates making a plaque to hang at the foot of the gurney: “Barry’s Bed.” Really, how many times in this month alone has Harrison found himself here, patient and observing, waiting for Barry to wake up? If the young fool keeps this pace, he’ll be dead before the years end.

And that? That is _unacceptable_.

“It’s presenting itself like frostbite. There are patches of first and third degree,” Caitlin murmurs quietly to Detective West. If not for the good Detective’s being in the right place at the right time, Barry might not have made it back to S.T.A.R. Labs, even with his advanced healing. Healing that has clearly been _compromised_. 

Cisco sits off to the side of the room, hunched forward, arms wrapped around himself as he works tirelessly to locate the coldgun. Ms. Smoak is with him, offering quiet advice as they work together on the computer.

“I thought – he’s got super-healing, to go with that speed,” West says. Barry’s injuries have hit him especially hard, likely because he was present when they were administered. The man known as Harrison Wells will admit, even he is surprised by Snart’s viciousness. It doesn’t quite fit with the man’s usual MO.

“It’s been slowed,” Caitlin explains. “If his cells weren’t in a state of constant regeneration, those blood vessels would be frozen solid. He’d be dead. That’s not even counting the injury on his shoulder, which I wouldn’t have recognized as a bullet wound at all – except for the fact that I pulled a _bullet_ out of it.”

“What do you mean?” West asks.

Caitlin presses, “Everything is healing slower, including whatever _that_ is. It’s not a clean wound, Detective West, and I can’t even begin to speculate what caused that extent of blunt trauma to the muscle and tissue there. How did it happen?”

“Leonard Snart froze him to the wall with some sort of high-tech freeze-ray, shot him in the shoulder with a 9 mil, then shoved his fingers in the wound like he was kneading fucking bread. How do you think it happened, doctor?” West snaps. Caitlin recoils, and the detective lets out a shaky sigh, running his fingers through his hair as he apologizes, “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just – I was _right_ there.”

“S’okay,” Barry whispers from where he’s laid out on the infirmary bed. “M’okay, Joe.”

“Barry!” Everyone moves at once, crowding around the young man’s bed. Everyone seems to be talking all at once, and the sound reverberates in the small infirmary until finally, Caitlin raises her voice and practically shouts, “Okay! Enough! Everyone out!”

Caitlin pins each of them in turn with her icy stare as she slips easily into her physician persona. “Detective West, Barry will make a full recovery. I promise you that. But I imagine you have reports to file and excuses to make, and Barry will be here in the morning. Felicity, I realize that you traveled from Starling City for this visit, but now is really not the best time as you can plainly see. Cisco, you’re exhausted and you’ve been working yourself to death. Go home, get some rest, and come back in the morning. Dr. Wells–” Here, she falters. She coughs, clearing her throat, then says, “Barry needs to rest. He needs the quiet. All of this?” Her hand gesture encompasses all of them. “This has to go, at least for a few hours.”

The man known as Harrison Wells nods, giving her his support as he says, “I agree. If we could all say our goodnights, Mr. Allen can get some rest.”

Barry seems to drift hazily in and out of awareness as goodbyes are spoken, and it’s fairly quick work to clear everyone out of the infirmary. Harrison, Caitlin, and Barry and are the only three left. Harrison notes the dark marks under the young woman’s eyes and says, “Go home, Caitlin. I wasn’t planning on leaving tonight anyway. I’ll keep an eye on Barry and call you if anything comes up.”

Caitlin gives him a long, searching look, then sighs. “I suppose it can’t be helped. But please, Dr. Wells, you need to take care of yourself, too, okay?”

“Oh,” Harrison says lightly. “I always do.” 

***

Leonard Snart lounges against the windowsill. He is motionless. He does not fidget in place, or roll his shoulders, or crack his neck. There is blood on his fingers, sticky and red. He stares at his hands, unblinking. 

He lifts his head and stares at his once-partner. His eyes reflect blood and lighting. His ears ring with screaming and the sound of gun shots. 

“I think–” Len says slowly, softly and with careful deliberation, “I think I’m going to start a war.”

He doesn’t give his reasons for his change of tune or for wanting to stay in Central City. He doesn’t talk about vengeance or Nora Allen’s murder. He very pointedly doesn’t think about Barry Allen or why he has turned his anger to target this impossible man.

Len continues, “I’m going to need a new kind of crew. Someone like you. You’re tolerant of extremes, you have certain skills. You just need – direction.”

He nods his head to the case on the table. The S.T.A.R. Labs logo gleams as the other man flicks his lighter open, strikes the flame.

“You still like playing with fire?” Leonard Snart asks. 

He doesn’t say that he will hunt the scarlet man like an animal. He doesn’t say that he will kill this impossible man slowly, or that he will drench his hands in unforgiving red, or that there will be screams like the ones that even now echo in his head, reverberating through his skull. He doesn’t say there will be bodies in the gutters or blood in the streets. He doesn’t have to.

“So... are you in, Mick? Or are you out.”

“Yeah, buddy.” Mick Rory chuckles. His answering grin stretches the scars across his face, and the poor lighting in the hotel room makes them look sinister. One hand reaches out, fingers running reverently across the surface of the handheld flamethrower. “Yeah, I’m in.”

***


	20. [5/5] Episode 4: Little Red, in the Hood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, episode 4, complete! So, there was supposed to be way more Cisco, but Eo/Wells went and stole the show, like he does. Anyway, to answer one frequently asked question: Yes, there will be more ColdFlash in the future. I mean, if Len pining distantly and starting a war over Barry isn't enough of a declaration of love for you and all, Len and Barry will meet again (eventually) without the masks. Just keep in mind, this is not a short story, and there are no easy fixes.

***

The man known as Harrison Wells spends an uneventful hour watching Barry shift restlessly in the infirmary’s bed. The young man is only half-aware of his surroundings, and he reaches for the lines that connect him to the many surrounding machines in this state of near unconsciousness. He tugs them, eyes closed, and the small, pained twist of his lips is more suited to someone suffering from an exceptionally nasty migraine.

Well-used to Barry’s behavior, having dealt with it so many times in the month since the Flash was born, Harrison simply reaches forward from where he sits in his wheelchair, gently pulling the tubes and wires from Barry’s hands. He tucks them back into place, making small adjustments as needed. One of the monitors makes a few insistent beeping sounds, catching his attention.

Eyeing the monitor, taking note of a handful of pertinent changes, Harrison finds himself waiting for the physical changes to reflect these numbers. Barry does not disappoint. The young man lets out a small, pained sound and his eyes fly open. He gazes frantically around the room, blind and unseeing, and his breath comes out in stuttered, panicked gasps.

Harrison easily recognizes the lingering vestiges of a nightmare. To be honest, it’s more than a bit irritating that Leonard Snart has slipped so easily into an area of Barry’s life previously occupied solely by the Reverse-Flash, the impossible monster beneath Barry’s bed. Harrison keeps his voice calm, soothing, but raises it loud enough to break into whatever waking vision the young man finds himself trapped in as he calls out, “Barry!” 

“Fuck–” Barry groans. His fingers tangle in the bed sheet as he flops bonelessly backward, relieving some of the weight from his injures. “Oh, fuck. I – Harrison? What–”

In the interest of preventing any vapid displays of abject terror _not_ inspire by himself, Harrison reaches forward and takes Barry’s hand in his own. There – that little jolt of electricity that passes between them, he braces himself against his initial response to it – and then Barry is clutching at Harrison’s hand with bruising strength.

“Fuck,” Barry whispers, broken, lost. “I don’t. How am I suppose to–? Fuck.”

Harrison is surprised to note there are no tears. Perhaps the young man spent them all a few days prior, when he’d discovered his entire relationship with Snart had been based on a lie.

“Do you need a moment to compose yourself?” he feels compelled to offer.

“Sorry,” Barry says. He makes no move to release Harrison’s hand. “Fuck. Sorry. I’m sorry.” The young man takes in a deep, calming breath through his nose. His expression reflects immediate regret as the movement jostles the still healing wound on his shoulder.

They sit in silence. Barry breathes, shallow, sharp, staccato. Their tangled fingers lay between them on Barry’s lap, unacknowledged. Finally, after a few minutes, Barry speaks again. He still sounds worn down, confused, but he’s in better control of himself than when he first woke.

“I guess. Um. I guess I got my ass kicked, huh?” Barry asks, reaching for levity, falling short. There’s a strange, wobbly quality to his voice that Harrison chooses to ignore.

“To be fair,” Harrison feels compelled to point out, “Even Detective West, who arguably knows Snart best in his capacity as a criminal, was surprised by his – brutality – in this matter.”

Barry’s fingers spasm at the sound of Snart’s name. He swallows, then replies, “Len – I mean, um, S-snart – he isn’t a metahuman. He had – some kind of gun? It froze things. Slowed me down.” The young man shakes his head, not exactly a denial, and says, “He’s smart, but he – couldn’t have built it himself. He has trouble working a blue-ray player.”

“S.T.A.R. Labs built the coldgun,” Harrison replies. He makes no excuses, offers no apologies. The statement is fact, nothing more, it’s delivery akin to ripping off a band-aid. Barry’s eyes widen, stunned. Harrison continues, “It was stolen a few days ago.”

“But – why?” There is betrayal in Barry’s voice, thick and heavy.

“I believe the gun's creator built it originally with one intention – to stop you. Speed and cold are, at a subatomic level, opposites. The gun? A compact cryo engine, designed to achieve absolute zero. You’d have found the science behind it quite remarkable, I imagine, if it had been introduced to you under different circumstances.”

There is a moment of silence, and Harrison is rewarded with a front row seat as he observes Barry’s ability to put together the truth, taking fragments of his words and fitting them together like a fractured puzzle.

“Its creator,” Barry repeats slowly. His brow furrows. “Cisco?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t know he’d made it, did you?” Barry continues distantly; it’s almost as though his mind is elsewhere. Despite the phasing, the words are a statement, not a question. Really, the man known as Harrison Wells finds it a pleasure to watch Barry work his way through these minefields on his own. As satisfying as it is to leave a trail of verbal breadcrumbs for someone to follow, the higher that person’s cognitive level, the more rewarding the payoff. Throughout the last month, Harrison has been steadily increasing the complexity of his worded puzzles, and each time Barry has risen to the challenge.

“Cisco is – afraid of me? Of what I can do?” Barry asks hesitantly, fearful of what truth the answer might bring.

Granted, the young man hasn’t yet caught up to Harrison’s own level of genius, but it’s only been a month since lightning struck.

“I believe our budding young engineer created that piece months before you woke up. We all had our – suspicions – that you might have been altered by the lightning. In the wake of the explosion, I believe Mr. Ramon wanted to be prepared for a worst case scenario. Then, when you proved to be a good man, he simply forgot to mention it. Believe me, I was – most irate.”

Barry bites his lip and clutches at Harrison’s hand, a lifeline in this confusing sea of information.

Still, Cisco Ramon is an important cog in this little machine he’s created, and Barry Allen’s propensity for forgiveness is near legendary. Harrison continues, “Cisco has been very – upset. The fact that something he created nearly killed you has been tearing him up inside. I consider myself very – skilled – when it comes to understanding motivations, and I can tell you what Cisco is currently feeling is likely a worse punishment than anything you might dream up.”

Barry blinks, a small frown forming on his lips at the word ‘punishment.’

Harrison raises an eyebrow, then adds, “In fact, if you were to treat him poorly in the future over this, I’d imagine he’d actually appreciate it. He’d consider it penance for his mistake.”

“I don’t – I don’t _want_ to treat him badly,” Barry protests vehemently. Then his eyes widen as he realizes the full truth of that statement. “Oh.”

Harrison cannot suppress a small smirk.

“Oh,” Barry repeats, then laughs a little dryly, and shakes his head. “I don’t want to treat him badly. I don’t want to treat him differently at all. The only way that happens – is by forgiving him. God, how do you always _do_ that?”

“Do what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Barry snorts. “It _really_ doesn’t suit you. You just. You always know what to say. I was – I mean, I was _furious_ at Cisco. He’s my friend, and I thought he trusted me, and I am _so_ tired of being lied to–”

“To be fair, his was a lie of omission,” Harrison interjects quietly. “Despite the fact that you are currently lying in a hospital bed because of his actions – or, more specifically, his _inactions_ – both you and I know that he cares for you, for your friendship. This wasn’t his intention.”

“I know that,” Barry says. “That’s my point. Even though it was just a gut reaction, I really was furious. Cisco’s my friend, which made that betrayal worse. But even angry, all it took you was a handful of words to make me realize. And in the end, what's important? No one died.” The young man laughs, a small, honest thing, then teases, “Are you sure you didn’t get superpowers that night, Harrison? What would Cisco call you? The Verbal Viper?”

There is a little jolt a electricity that passes between their hands. The man known as Harrison Wells is horrified to realize that Barry is not the originator of this particular spark, though thankfully the younger man doesn’t seem to notice the difference.

Eager to redirect the conversation, Harrison says, “I hate to ask you, Barry, but we do need to talk about a more serious matter tonight, as well.”

Barry lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah. We do, don’t we? Len – I mean, Snart – I keep thinking about what he said at the theater. It was – strange?”

“We heard some of it through your com-link,” Harrison replies. “But I’d like to go over it with you anyway.”

“He asked me if I was there that night, fourteen years ago. He asked me if I was there for my mother’s murder.” Barry bites down hard on his lip, and Harrison recognizes the action as a grounding technique. The pain keeps the young man focused on this current reality. “How – how would he–”

A flash of irritation shoots through the man known as Harrison Wells, and he squeezes Barry’s hand, hard enough to bruise. Surprised, Barry glances down at their joined hands, the action drawing him back to the present far more effectively than a bloody lip. Barry smiles wryly, and issues a return squeeze, far more gently. Then, Barry picks up on the verbal trail of breadcrumbs that Snart left him, just as Harrison has been covertly training him to do, and it’s – it’s so very _satisfying_ to watch.

“There were definitely four people present there the night my mother was killed. My mother, dead. My father, incarcerated. Me, who Len – Snart – is already familiar with. And finally, the man who killed my mom. If he – if he knew it was me, under the mask, he would have called me by my name. He wouldn’t have been so – angry.”

“Are you certain about that?” Harrison asks, in the interest of seeing Barry’s thought process more than out of actual disagreement.

“Yes.” Barry is certain, having his hit his stride. “The last time he and I saw each other, we spent the night watching bad TV in a hotel room, eating Chinese on the bed while we laughed about what a dork I was for constantly putting my foot in my mouth around Oliver Queen. There’s no way to make the transition from that to – to shooting me with a freeze-ray. And a bullet. God, that sucked.”

“Unless,” Barry continues, “he didn’t know it was me. My mother is dead. My father is in jail. That leaves – the killer. He called me an impossible man, when he had me pinned against the wall. That’s – when I talk about my mother’s murder, I’ve always called it an impossible crime.”

“So,” Harrison concludes, shaking his head in disbelief, “Your – lover? Ex-lover? – has decided to hunt down the Streak in an effort to avenge your mother’s death. That’s – sweet?”

“That he wouldn’t come to see me in the hospital, but that he’ll start a manhunt for my mother’s killer?” Barry scoffs. “It – I mean, I can appreciate the thought. But the reality is, it’s not okay. Even if he was targeting the right person, there’s no excuse for – for what he did. I need the killer to confess to his crimes, or my father will spend the rest of his life in prison for something he didn’t do. Am I angry at the man who took my mother from me? Absolutely. But my father’s the one who lost the most that night, and Len – he should _know_ that.”

Barry lets out a heavy breath. Then, his brow furrows and he asks, “Why the Streak, though? I mean, what is it that makes him – so sure? It’s too much of a coincidence, that he comes hunting for my mother’s killer and decides that it’s me without even knowing who I am. Unless...”

Barry trails off, his eyes shuttering inward again. After a moment, he says, “Harrison, can I. I mean, you’ve got video footage saved, don’t you? Of what it looks like when I run? I need to see it.”

“Of course,” Harrison replies. Internally, he’s a bit irritated that Snart’s actions have caused Barry to look more closely at his mother’s murder. It pushes up the timeframes he’s currently working with by weeks, and there are several plans that will need to be scrapped entirely.

Barry yawns, his mouth opening wide enough that Harrison can say for certain that the young man never had his tonsils removed.

“But perhaps we should hold off on that until the morning?” Harrison suggests. “You are still healing, and I don’t particularly want to be on the receiving end of your foster-father’s service weapon if he finds out I’ve kept you up all night.”

Barry smiles faintly. The clinical white of the hospital sheets makes the redness of his blush stand out even more clearly than usual. “I – um. I kind of like the idea of you keeping me up all night.”

Harrison’s mouth goes dry. 

“But you’re right,” Barry continues as if he hasn’t just detonated a small, nuclear weapon between them. “I – everything hurts, right now. I need to heal. And then, in the morning, I need to look at those tapes.”

“You’re,” Harrison pauses for a moment, trying to regain his footing. “You’re taking this – all of this – far more calmly than I believed you would. Today had to have been traumatic for you?”

Barry smiles again, looking down at where he still holds Harrison’s hand. “Yeah. Well. Today sucked, I won’t deny that. All of this sucks. I accepted, a week ago, that I probably wasn’t ever going to see Len again. And then, out of the blue, there he was, only everything I’d been led to believe was a lie and he’s really this super-thief-criminal. And then today – he hurt me.”

Barry shudders, just a tiny tremble. His eyes are closed as he takes a moment, likely reliving the events that occurred in the theater. “But – when I’m wearing that mask – I’m not really me anymore. If that makes sense? And in that moment, he wasn’t someone who I – who I love. He was – just another bad guy with a gun. I don’t know. I just. Every time I seem to find my footing, someone else pulls the rug out from under me, and I’m – I’m tired of just _reacting_. I have to – to accept things.”

“And to be honest,” Barry glances over at him, dark lashes sweeping over brilliant blue eyes. Then, another smile. The sort of smile that can melt the coldest men. The young man cradles Harrison’s hand tenderly in his own, lifting it to press his lips to the palm. “You’re here with me. That – that makes all the difference.”

The man known as Harrison Wells sits by Barry’s bedside in silence as the young man closes his eyes and falls asleep. He sits like that for a long time, watching the young man’s chest rise and fall, replaying those damning words in his head.

At some point in the night, he pulls his hand away from Barry’s. It feels – warm. Cherished.

Furious, both of his hands ball into fists. His teeth clench to the point of pain. “Nothing is forgiven,” he grits out. “This changes _nothing_.”

Barry – beautiful, naive, oblivious Barry Allen – sleeps on.

***

The next morning, Cisco is relieved to meet with Barry’s open forgiveness. It confuses him, but it doesn’t appear that he dwells on it too deeply. As he goes to leave the room, Harrison reaches out, wrapping his fingers around Cisco’s arm in a vice-like grip. Stunned, Cisco stares at Harrison as though he’s never seen him before. Harrison says darkly, “This is the second time, Cisco. First the hacker, now the gun.”

Cisco swallows, nods his head. His dark long hair brushes back and forth against his cheek with the motion. “I – I’m sorry, Dr. Wells.”

Harrison continues, trying to impress into his voice the seriousness of this demand. “Don't you _ever_ do anything like this again Do you understand me?”

Because if Cisco fucks up on this scale a third time? There will be no forgiveness, no matter how well he fits into this team that Harrison has created.

“Yes, sir,” Cisco whispers.

Harrison nods once, releasing his hold on Cisco's arm. He directs his wheelchair to the nearby computer, intent on bringing up the footage that Barry requested the night before. He can feel Cisco’s eyes on his back, a medley of emotion. There is sorrow and regret and confusion – 

– ah, yes. There it is. That heady, unmistakable stink. Fear. 

The man known as Harrison Wells takes a deep, satisfying breath. 

***


	21. [1/1] Interlude: Papa Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/12/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).

***

Ever since Barry Allen was a little kid, Joe West has known he’s something special. Not just in the way that all parents think their kids are special, or the way that every kid gets a trophy for participation. Joe isn’t the sort of man who thrives on delusion. He’s always been firmly grounded in reality, and in a lot of ways, Barry’s actually pretty damned normal – how he wants other people to like him. How he uses his smarts to try and protect himself from the bad things that Joe knows – intimately, wholly, and without question – are lurking in the dark.

But in other ways? Barry is very, very different. It’s not just because he’s smart, and it’s not just because he’s clever – two valuable traits that are usually fairly exclusive.

It is because Barry has a tiny, fledgling spark inside him that refuses to go out. 

Joe doesn’t get to see it out in the real world very often, especially considering his line of work. But that spark? That spark has him looking forward to coming home after every bad day at work, keeps him putting one foot in front of the other. That desire to help people, even to the detriment of himself. That passion for forgiveness, for second chances. That ability to see the very worst humanity has to offer, and somehow turn around and believe – honestly, completely, with his whole heart – that people are capable of so much better.

That spark is Barry at his core. It is this very thing, the one that makes the kid so damned easy to love, that has Joe West so damned worried.

Joe isn’t a dumb man. Hell, he himself had been gifted two of Barry’s best traits growing up – that dangerous combination of being both smart and clever. He’s spent years in the precinct learning to be a better detective, looking at cases from multiple angles, fitting together the puzzles when he’s known he didn’t have all pieces. Hell, he’s spent so much time training himself to look at the world from that mindset that it’s no longer something he can just switch off.

There may be speculation, but in the end, it all comes down to the facts. And here it is – fact: Barry Allen has been in love with Joe's daughter for years. 

Honestly, Joe would have loved it if Barry and Iris had ended up together down the line. He'd have been proud to call Barry his son-in-law, the same way he’s proud to call Barry his kid. Iris, though? She’s got other plans. She never saw it, because she was too close to Barry as a friend to ever realize the boy saw her as anything more than that. And now she’s dating Joe's partner, which is a whole other can of worms he doesn’t plan on opening quite yet.

Point is, the whole teen-drama element is something Joe had gotten used to. Until, one day, Barry starts looking down at his phone and reading texts that aren’t from Iris. And then? Fact: Barry smiles.

It’s the smile of a kid in love, or at least, one who’s infatuated enough to think it might be love. And in the beginning, Joe finds himself cautiously pleased. Because the potential exists for Barry to find happiness, and Joe will never, ever deny one of his children that chance. The faint blush that flushes Barry’s face, the telling sparkle of excitement in Barry’s eyes – yeah, Joe will give this mystery texter a chance.

Only, Barry never brings his love interest around. And that? That sends up some red flags.

Barry sometimes spends the night away from home, and comes back the next day with hickeys peeking up over the collar of his shirt like he’s a teenager in high school. Joe can’t say anything about it, because technically it’s not happening under his roof, and Barry is a grown ass man.

(Joe will always look at the kid and see him staring up with those too-bright eyes, smiling that dumb, lopsided little grin, boxing gloves half-laced and slipping off his tiny, balled fists. Joe will always look at him and think – my kid – no matter how many birthdays the brat has under his belt.)

So yeah, maybe Joe does a little snooping. In the interest of protecting one of the two people around whom his world revolves, a little snooping is totally understandable. Hell, when he’d clued in that Iris was dating Eddie, he’d run three separate background checks and an audit to be on the safe side. Only Joe hits a snag and the phone number those texts come from? Constantly changing. Burner phones.

Which leads Joe to speculate, is Barry – sweet, innocent Barry who somehow sees the best in everyone – dating a criminal?

Maybe there’s a logical explanation for not attaching their name to their phone. Maybe there’s a reason this person goes through burners like tissues even, swapping out one number for the next in the span of a few months. Maybe there’s logic to be found in the fact that Barry’s mystery lover is never in Central City for very long, and that some of these booty calls coincide rather neatly with semi-priceless items stolen in near perfect heists.

Just in case there’s a conflict of interest, though, Joe makes sure Barry is never assigned these cases. Can’t slip up and pillow talk about something you know nothing about, after all. And maybe Joe is just being paranoid and making connections that aren’t there, but – 

– but Barry never brings his lover home. Barry, who can’t play poker worth a damn and hates keeping secrets from the people he loves, never, ever brings this person home. Joe knows, if Barry has continued investing himself in this relationship – for weeks which turn to months until suddenly a _year_ has gone by, then two – then he cares about this person.

Fact: Barry is incapable of being with someone in that way and not giving them his heart. It’s one of the things that Joe’s always worried about, if Barry moved on from Iris. Because pining after Iris? It’s safe. Iris will never intentionally cause Barry harm – either she’d return his feelings or she wouldn’t, but she’d never lead him on. She’d never use those feelings against him. 

The rest of the world will not offer that same guarantee.

So yeah, Barry’s got feelings – got them hard, by every indicator that Joe can recognize. And those feelings? They mean that he wants this person to be a part of his life, in every aspect. Apart from poor Henry Allen, Joe and Iris are the only family Barry’s got. The fact that Joe has never met this person means one of two things – either Barry is afraid that Joe won’t approve, or this person has told Barry that they’ve got no desire to meet his family.

And when it comes down to it, either of those reasons is enough to make Joe see red.

So a year goes by, and then another, and Joe sees that Barry is looking worn around the edges. Like he can’t quite place what made him stick around for so long. The honeymoon’s clearly worn off, and somehow, something’s got to give.

Lightning strikes.

It’s one of the worst experiences of Joe’s life. Finding Barry in a puddle of rainwater and shattered glass, sprawled on the floor of his room at the precinct looking more dead than alive. Watching his kid flat line, over and over again, and being helpless to do anything that would make a damned bit of difference. Feeling useless and small and so goddamned stupid because there’s a lot of shit in Barry’s life that he doesn’t deserve and why are there so many fucking criminals walking free when this beautiful boy lies in a fucking _coma_ –

And for nine months, apart from Joe, Iris, and a handful of Barry’s coworkers, no one comes to visit. A two year investment is worth at least a vase of flowers. Something – anything – to show that this mystery lover cares. But, in the end, there’s nothing, and Joe figures that’s the end of that relationship. Criminal or not, some lines are universal.

Joe doesn’t dwell on it too deeply, willing to push it to the back of his mind because Barry is suddenly capable of amazing feats of speed and that’s sort of more important. Yeah, maybe the kid has some crap luck when it comes to dating. Yeah, spending his younger years pining after someone who didn’t see him as more than a friend, that probably sucked. And yeah, following that by dating someone who is, at best ashamed to be seen with him in public, or at worst, a criminal using him for their own ends, that also probably sucked. Still, third times a charm, and right now? Well, it looks like Barry’s starting to pick up the pieces of his life, move on from the accident, hell – become something extraordinary, even.

Only that charming third time Joe is banking on? It’s going to give him gray hair. Because Barry’s sending these sidelong looks at a man named Harrison Wells, and that’s fucking Trouble, Capital T.

At first it seems like maybe Barry’s pinned his heart on another unreachable target. But when Joe gets a good look at Wells’ eyes, at the expression in them when the man looks at Barry, alarm bells start to ring. For all that Harrison Wells is a man like any other – a proud man led astray, damned by his own ambitions, paying penance for those sins – there is something there that sets Joe’s teeth on edge. 

It isn’t that Wells is a man, because that particular prejudice can go choke and die for all Joe cares. It isn’t the age difference because sometimes it’s the experience that shapes a man, and God knows Barry’s experiences tend to run toward tragedy, and that can age anyone prematurely. It isn’t even that he thinks Harrison Wells is kind of a pompous, narcissistic dick.

It is a feeling. A gut instinct. Joe’s gotten it a handful of times over the years, but it is instantly recognizable: the feeling of being – observed – stalked – hunted.

Because for all the man may be confined to a wheelchair, Harrison Wells is a goddamned predator. He is a hunter in a jungle full of warm, squishy herbivores, and when he looks at Barry, Joe doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry.

Harrison Wells looks at Barry like he is the warm, shining center around which this world revolves. He looks as though he is a man dying of thirst and Barry is not only the cup, but the water and the well. He looks at Barry as though he will _consume_ him.

It’s not fucking healthy.

And what’s worse? Barry looks at Wells with stars and moons and maybe even hearts in his eyes. Harrison Wells has been his idol for years. Now he’s starting to see the older man as someone real, made of flesh and blood and not just inspiring words on a page. Harrison Wells _is_ science. Barry has loved science since he was a child.

Joe West doesn’t know what the future will bring. He can’t even begin to speculate. He deals in facts. No matter how many theories or scenarios he tosses around, it’s the facts that really matter. And here they are.

Fact: Barry Allen is special.

Fact: No matter how old he gets, Barry will always be Joe’s kid.

Fact: Joe will do just about anything to protect his kids. He’ll do just about anything to protect that little spark inside Barry, to shelter it from the rest of the world and shield him from anything – or anyone – who might seek to harm him.

And if it turns out that Harrison Wells is bad news? Joe will joyfully burn that bridge when he crosses it – preferably with Wells’ wheelchair overturned and the man himself trapped somewhere near the middle.

***


	22. [1/4] Episode 5: The Twice-burned Candle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not even remotely scientifically competent. Everything I know about science, I learned from comic books. Please keep that in mind. Also – holy motherloving fuckballs! This story? This story is at 600+ kudos, and about 250+ comments. That is _amazing_. Thank you all so much for reading!
> 
> 02/12/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).

***

There is something to be said for sweet torment. Barry Allen is firm and fit and he is so very close, their shoulders nearly touching. The man known as Harrison Wells can smell the clean, subtle scents of soap and shampoo, and also the faintest hint of after-shave. Barry radiates heat from where he is leaning forward, bent neatly at the waist with his elbows resting on the computer console as his eyes intently scan the video footage playing on the screen. 

Barry sighs, shakes his head in disbelief. “I didn’t make the connection,” he says, voice a strange mix of frustration and self-deprecation. “Why didn’t I see it?”

“To be fair,” Harrison replies lightly, watching the small, red figure dashing forward on the screen, lightning dodging every step, “it isn’t as though you’ve ever watched yourself run at super speeds.”

“Still,” Barry protests faintly. “But. It’s good, knowing. That’s why. Len – Snart, I mean – that’s why he thinks ‘the Streak’ killed my mom. Because I told him it was a man in the lightning. And that’s what I look like.”

Together, motionless, they watch Barry run on the screen for another minute, trailing neon-red electricity. Finding the scent of that damned shampoo strangely distracting, Harrison finally switches off the monitor and leans back in his wheelchair. 

Barry straightens, his spine popping as he rolls his shoulders, working the kinks from his back. He begins to pace. “That can’t just be a coincidence, can it?”

“As a scientist,” Harrison replies, “I can safely say I don’t believe in coincidence. You are correct, though. The likelihood of your mother’s death at the hands of a–” monster, genius, mastermind “–speedster, when you yourself grew up and came into those same inhuman abilities? Statistically speaking, the odds of these two events being unconnected? Infinitesimal.”

Barry nods. He hits the wall, spins on his heel, strides to the other. The process repeats, hypnotic in its rhythm. “I get that. I’m torn, though. On one hand, this is. Well, it’s the first _new_ piece of evidence I’ve been able to find in fourteen years. Not definitive proof, but pretty persuasive anyway – my mother’s killer is a speedster, like me. On the other hand?” He hits the walls, spins, strides. “I was already chasing after impossible crimes before this so in the end, what difference does my knowing actually make? It isn’t as though I can just look at someone and say, ‘Hey, you look like you’re capable of breaking the sound barrier.’ God. This is so _frustrating_.”

“Barry! Dr. Wells!” Cisco dashes into the room, interrupting Barry’s monologue as he skids to a halt in front of them. “Good, you’re both here. I have news – big news!”

“What’s up?” Barry asks, smiling in the face of Cisco’s obvious enthusiasm.

The young engineer slips into one of the chairs, cracking his knuckles absently as he begins to type. On the overhead monitor, he brings up a diagram of what appears to be a metal bracelet. Or perhaps, Harrison muses, a metal shackle. It’s certainly thick enough, teeming with tangled wires and curious bits of metal fused together in complex patterns.

“So,” Cisco says as his fingers fly across the keypad, “you know how you asked me to look into containing the powers of our metahuman prisoners somehow? I think I’ve got a solution. For Kyle Nimbus, at least. Last week, with Captain Cold–”

“Really, Cisco?” Harrison feels compelled to ask. Still, he will admit the smallest speck of curiosity, of wondering if Snart would regain that particular moniker in this timeline.

Cisco hazards, “Citizen Cold? Corporal Cold? Commander Cold?”

Barry bites his lower lip. He looks uncomfortable at the topic of conversation, but volunteers, “He never even graduated high school. He doesn’t need you to give him a military rank.”

“Just Cold then,” Cisco agrees easily. “Got it.” He hits a few more keys and the image on the screen takes on a three-dimensional quality as it begins to rotate, showing off the design from multiple perspectives. “Anyway, the coldgun got me thinking about that cryo engine again, and about the other properties of absolute zero. That’s when it hit me – the simplest way to keep Nimbus from going misty is to keep him cold. Just as heat causes liquids to turn into gases, cold causes them–”

“–to freeze, taking on the properties of a solid form.” Barry nods. “Makes sense.”

“And exactly how,” Harrison asks, his eyebrow quirking slightly, “do you propose to keep Mr. Nimbus – ah – chilled? On a cellular level, at that?”

Barry smiles again, a little lopsided, and adds, “I guess cranking up the AC isn’t going to fly?”

“Yes,” Cisco says. “And no. Basically.”

The man known as Harrison Wells stares at Cisco until the younger man coughs uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck as he hastens to explain, “Okay, so that – didn’t quite come out the way I meant. Um, so I designed this device–” He points to the screen, “–which basically monitors and maintains body temperature. It’s like a mini-AC that uses cryotechnology to keep a person’s core temperature regulated – in this case, set to about ninety-two degrees. Any lower than that and we’d run the risk of killing him.”

Harrison finds himself nodding as he listens to Cisco’s explanation. As far as the containment of metahumans goes, it’s a sound theory.

“So,” Barry says slowly, “if you build this and it works – the Mist won’t be able to use his ability for as long as he’s wearing that tech.”

“Pretty much. But that’s when we run into a slight snag. Because if it does work, we’d be obligated to turn him back over to Iron Heights prison,” Cisco replies, making a face.

“Oh.” Barry’s voice is flat, clearly hearing what Cisco _isn’t_ saying. “Kyle Nimbus is ‘dead,’ executed the night of the explosion. If we turn him back over to the prison, they’ll correct that oversight, and when the paperwork goes through... they’ll kill him again, for real this time.”

“Yup,” Cisco says. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, the guy was a hitman for the Russian mob. Also, kind of a dick. But it seems, I don’t know, weird? To have worked so hard to capture and contain him, only for him to be executed in the end.”

“Yeah,” Barry agrees. “I guess – that’s probably a decision that all of us should make together? We’re a team, right? So after I get done work at the precinct, maybe we can all meet back here and take a vote or something.”

 _Saint Barry,_ the man known as Harrison Wells muses with an internal sigh. Seeing how the prospect of this imminent moral dilemma is already weighing on both of the young men, evident in the set of their shoulders, the worry creasing their foreheads, he redirects, “What about our other two metahuman prisoners?”

Clearly grateful for the distraction, Cisco replies, “Well, I’m still not any closer to figuring out how to contain Clyde Mardon. The magnetic field generated around the pipeline prison cell interferes with his abilities, but I haven’t been able miniaturize the field and maintain that same strength.”

“How about that other project I asked you about?” Barry interjects.

“Other project?” Harrison asks, intrigued. He is aware of most everything of interest that goes on in this building – and, indeed, in this city. That Barry has asked Cisco for something that he hasn’t heard about? Most curious.

“Oh!” Barry says, embarrassed. “Um, it’s kind of – I don’t know – dumb, I guess? I’ve been bringing Mardon books to read because sitting in that cell all day. Well, I’m not trying to kill these guys with boredom. I’ve tried bringing them to Black and Nimbus, too, but Black never touches them and Nimbus apparent doesn’t like reading–”

“–because he’s a monster–” Cisco mutters under his breath.

“–you said the same thing about me when you found out I don’t like licorice–”

“–because _you’re_ a monster–”

Barry rolls his eyes, “–anyway, I asked Cisco if there was a way to set up some sort of computer in each cell. Something where they can stream music, movies, whatever – just something to keep their brains from going completely stagnant while we figure out what to do with them.” Barry shrugs. “I’d like to give them control of what they watch or listen to, but on the off chance that they have any computer skills, we can’t risk them being able to connect to the outside world via the internet and calling for help. So I asked Cisco if he could figure something out.”

“Which I have. Sort of. I mean, the best solution is usually the simplest,” Cisco replies. “One-way connections. The monitors that they have access to? We don’t make them interactive. They can make a list of the kinds of music they like or the types of movies they want and I’ll set up a preprogrammed selection for them. They get control of turning the system on or off, but that’s about it.”

Barry nods. “Okay. I mean,” he glances over at Harrison and nibbles his lip. “I mean, if that’s okay with you, Harrison?”

“I can see the wisdom in it,” Harrison replies, smiling faintly. His approval seems to be what Barry is seeking, because the young man’s shoulders lose some of their tension. “As you say, we’re not looking to drive anyone mad.”

“Yeah,” Cisco says slowly. “Speaking of. Danton Black? I really, really don’t know what to do about him. He hasn’t tried to use his ability once since we locked him up.”

Barry doesn’t look surprised by this admission. He simply nods, then adds, “And apart from the screaming – which, don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful it stopped – he hasn’t spoken a word to me when I go to visit him everyday. I mean, it sort of looks like he listens to me when I speak, but it’s really hard to tell.”

“Hey,” Cisco says, “At least he eats and drinks on his own now. I mean, that’s an improvement, right?”

“I just.” Barry frowns. “I hate having them locked up down there without knowing what our endgame is. I know we have time – both Mardon and Black are technically listed as dead. I just. I don’t want to get complacent. They’re not just some problem to be ignored until they go away. They’re human beings and, ultimately, they’re _our_ responsibility.”

 _Saint Barry,_ the man known as Harrison Wells thinks again. And again, there it is. That wave of fondness that threatens to destroy what he has worked so many years to achieve.

“Seriously, dude,” Cisco says. “This stuff is way too heavy to deal with before noon. Team S.T.A.R., here, tonight. I’ll go to the store, pick up enough booze to get all four of us completely wasted, and we’ll make our life-altering decisions the way the rest of America does.”

“So drunk we can’t see straight?” Barry asks with a wry smile.

“Damn right,” Cisco replies without missing a beat.

***

Leonard Snart sits on the corner of his hotel bed. His feet are planted solidly on the ground, his elbows balancing lightly on his knees. His fingers are laced together, a platform for his chin to rest. He stares at the map he has pinned to the wall, noting the four targets he has selected with care, inked in bright, offending red.

Each target is a small apartment building, housing between ten to twenty civilians between the ages of eight and fifty-seven. Each target passed their fire-safety inspections the previous year with the bare minimum requirements. The targets are equidistant from one another, residing at the farthermost four corners of the city. 

Each target has a pack of thermal charges hidden away in the boiler room, ready to be detonated remotely at the touch of a button. _Thank you, Mick,_ Len thinks. Lifelong pyromaniac with a frightening amount of knowledge in regards to all things that end in fire.

It comes down to this – to hunt the man in red, Len must first find his base of operation. There are two things that make Len believe the man has a base. First, the quality of the suit that he wears – a suit that appears to be a custom design, made of high caliber material. Unless the man is a tailor by trade, someone with very specific skills had to have made that suit. That means money, and if there is money to be spent on that attire, there is money to be spent on a building.

Second, the impossible man uses the police radio. Len knows this because he has matched the crimes the man in red prevents to the radio broadcasts as they are issued. Now, it's unlikely this man waits day and night by the police station with a short-distance receiver – a ridiculous notion, unless the man perhaps works nearby? It’s also possible that Detective Joe West is the Streak’s inside man at the CCPD, but Len has a gut feeling which very rarely leads him astray, and that feeling says that the Streak has access to a much broader network.

The Streak has a team. Perhaps this team consisting of only one other person, or perhaps the operation is somewhat larger. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that someone, somewhere does the listening, and contacts the impossible man when events are set into motion. All of this points to a secret base of operation, a – Len smirks at the ridiculousness of it – lair.

Leonard Snart has sheets of data he’s collected over the last week, including a rough timetable of how long it takes the Streak to show up on crime scenes from the time they are reported. Using that data, he plans to triangulate the Streak’s location. The only snag he hits is that first, he must find the base rate of the other man’s “average” speed. 

So, he picks four targets, sets the charges, and waits for a reported sighting of the man in red. When the Streak shows himself, Len will detonate these bombs simultaneously. Four equidistant targets, all with cameras set up to collect the data needed, and finally, Len will finally be able to get a rough baseline on the man as he moves through the city. Using that baseline, he can plug in the numbers and see if there’s any overlap in the timeframes he’s recorded. This in turn will narrow his search grid, allowing for quicker location of the Streak's lair.

Well, he’ll detonate three charges remotely and allow Mick to deal with the final one manually. An antsy Mick Rory is difficult to control. The sooner he lets the other man play with fire, the better.

***

“Okay, guys,” Barry says. His voice is – horrified. “We have a problem here. Like, a serious problem. Oh my god, how did I not realize it before?”

Cisco and Caitlin share a glance. They sit side by side on folding chairs in the cortex, around a makeshift poker table that Cisco produced from the near-mystical depths of the old employee lounge. The table is scattered with bottles of alcohol, plastic cups, and paper napkins. The pretense of this gathering being called for legitimate reasons – to make a decision regarding Kyle Nimbus – lasted approximately twenty minutes, following which Caitlin started mixing Mai-Tais. It's gone downhill from there. 

In point of fact? It's still going.

“Serious problem,” Cisco echoes. The statement would have had more impact if the young engineer’s face wasn’t flushed red from his sixth? – seventh? – shot. Caitlin giggles uncontrollably into the curve of her hand.

Barry looks as though he wants to shake the pair with his bare hands. “No. Really. Guys? The alcohol isn’t affecting me. Like, at all.”

“Oh!” Caitlin says, her eyes widening in understanding as she lowers her hand from her mouth. “It’s your hyper-metabolism! I need a sample!” However, she makes no move to get up from her seat, and her eyes are a bit glassy. 

“Hypothesis,” Cisco slurs. “Needs more data.” He burps, then offers Barry a half-full bottle of tequila.

Barry takes the bottle with a frown, then shrugs and downs it. It takes him a minute, but when he puts down the empty bottle, both Caitlin and Cisco are staring at him with wide, button-round eyes.

“I’m only twenty-five,” Barry laments, completely unaffected. “How are my drinking days already over?”

The man known as Harrison Wells snorts from where he's parked his chair some distance away, shakes his head. To Cisco, Barry’s feat puts him firmly in the category of godliness. There is little doubt the young man will have him chugging more bottles because in his semi-drunk state, he finds it “cool.” To Caitlin, however, Barry’s experiment with the tequila bottle puts him firmly in the category of specimen. Judging by the look in her eyes, there will be tests, and samples, and more tests. The combination of which she – hopefully – won't try her hand at until she's fully sober.

“You’re not drinking,” Barry observes as he pulls his chair up next to Harrison’s wheelchair. Apparently, the other two have let him go for the moment while they argue about the chemical makeup of a potential super-alcohol. 

“At my age, getting shit-faced doesn’t hold the same appeal,” Harrison says crudely with a half-smile. “And I am drinking.” He lifts his glass of whiskey in salute, then takes a slow sip, savoring the burn. It doesn’t affect him, but it’s a taste he appreciates.

Barry grins, then inclines his head towards Cisco and Caitlin. The pair are snickering together like school children, falling over themselves and each other as they write out formulas on napkins that likely won’t make any sense in the morning. Cisco points his finger to the ceiling and declares, “For technology!”

“For biology!” Caitlin argues.

They glare at one another, then seem to come to a silent understanding. “For science!” they say in unison. Cisco does another shot while Caitlin slips halfway out of her chair, but somehow manages to catch herself on the edge of the poker table before she falls entirely.

“Do they do this often?” Barry mock-whispers. 

“To my knowledge, they’ve never done this in S.T.A.R. Labs before. But then, before the explosion, none of us were – close.” Harrison shrugs. “Technically speaking, I am still their boss. But it’s far less formal, when our team consists of only three.”

“Do you miss it?” Barry asks. “When you were. I don’t know. At the top of the world, I guess?”

“No,” Harrison replies with a startling amount of honestly. “I am, in fact, exactly where I want to be.”

Barry flushes, and a small, genuinely pleased smile curls the corners of his mouth. Before he can say anything more, the alarm sounds from the computer, notifying them of an incoming call on the police scanner.

Well aware that Cisco is in no position to check the alert, Harrison directs his wheelchair over to the computer, eyes quickly scanning the incoming data. “It appears as though there is a bombing on 8th and Pass.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I can’t get drunk,” Barry grins, changing into the suit in the blink of an eye. “If drunk driving is dangerous, I can’t even imagine the damage I could do at my speeds. See you guys in a bit!”

Before Harrison can respond, the young man is gone. He keeps an eye on Barry’s vitals, but nothing seems amiss. Across the room, Cisco and Caitlin are arguing with each other over which of them is less drunk, and therefore in a better position to help Barry. The deciding factor, it seems, is who is capable of winning at rock-paper-scissors.

He ignores them in favor of listening to Barry as the young man calls frantically through the com-link, “Guys? There’s a window washer, and he’s going to fall!”

“Don’t try to catch him,” Cisco contributes helpfully, even as he flattens his hand in the universal symbol for paper. “You don’t – um. Super strength! You don’t have it.”

“Well, is there a furniture store near here?” Barry asks over the line. “What if I get a bunch of mattresses and stack them?”

Harrison cannot help but laugh at the absurdity of the image, even as Caitlin yells, “Barry, this isn’t a – um. This isn’t–” Unable to find the word, she looks helplessly as Cisco, making little snip-snip motions with her scissor-fingers.

Cisco balls his fist into a rock, then pounds it on his thigh. He exclaims in a voice that says he has discovered a new element, “Cartoon!”

“Not fair,” Caitlin grumbles, still making snipping motions with her fingers. “Can’t switch. After you pick!”

“Oh, god, he’s gonna fall. I don’t have the time–” Barry’s voice abruptly cuts out. Then, with a new clarity of purpose, he says, “How fast would I have to go to run up the side of a building?”

As both Cisco and Caitlin are entirely too drunk to be doing math, Harrison leans forward in his wheelchair, brow furrowing as he does some quick mental calculations. It's not something he consciously thinks about, after all; running up and down buildings has been the normal for so long that it's muscle memory. He pushes the button to the com-link and replies, “Approximately five-hundred and fifteen miles per hour, Barry. But, you need to maintain that velocity on your ascent, and more importantly, on your decent.”

“What happens if I don’t?” Barry asks.

“I’m going to pretend that question is rhetorical,” Harrison replies mildly. “You can do this, Barry. You’ve been running at super-speeds for over a month. The only difference is this time, you’ll be getting a hell of a view.”

Barry’s grin is evident in his voice as he replies warmly, “Thanks, Harrison. Oh god, okay, here goes–”

There are a few tense moments of silence, punctuated solely by Cisco’s snoring. Harrison glances over, marginally surprised to see the very drunk youth is now passed out in his seat. Apparently the excitement was too much for him. A small string of drool hangs from the corner of his mouth, and Caitlin sits next to him, eyes half-lidded. Actually, it appears as though she is already asleep, but that she forgot to close her eyes. It's one of the strangest things Harrison has seen in – a very long time, actually.

Then, Barry is standing in front of Harrison, grinning and shaking his head. “Okay, so! Mission accomplished. Except for the part where Iris just saw ‘the Streak’ dropping off the window washer to safety. What's she even doing at an active crime scene like that anyway?”

Barry blinks, then turns to stare at Cisco’s open-mouthed snoring and the little hiccuping noise Caitlin makes in her sleep, slumped limply in her seat. “Seriously?” the young man asks, stunned. “I don’t know if I should laugh or take pictures.” He picks up his cellphone from the counter, opening the camera app. “Or both. Do you have a marker?”

Harrison smiles faintly, about to respond, when the multiple alarms sound in the cortex. He glances over at the computer screen, and at the unexpected excess of data. “Reports of multiple explosions coming in now – 1st and Manayunk, 32nd and Alrington, 33rd and Yale, 52nd and Narberth. Accelerant must have been used because the fires are spreading – it looks as though there are people trapped inside the buildings at all four locations.”

“How is this my life?” Barry says, tossing his phone back on the counter. He smiles at Harrison, then glances at the sleeping forms of Cisco and Caitlin. 

“I’ll cover you from here,” Harrison replies, slipping seamlessly into the supporting role.

“Thanks,” Barry smiles, warm and intimate. “When I get back, I actually need to talk to you about a couple of things, so don't fall asleep on me, okay?” and then he’s gone, off to rescue men, women, and children from burning buildings in the blink of an eye. Harrison keeps an eye on his vitals, tracks pertinent data through the screen and offers advice when asked. For tonight, it seems, he is fated to play the silent, helpful observer.

Glancing fondly over at where Cisco and Caitlin sleep, the man known as Harrison Wells says quietly, “No rest for the wicked, I suppose.”

***

Building A to building B. Building B to C, and C to D. Three separate response times noted, then taken and averaged together. The plan and end result come together smoothly, and Leonard Snart finds a dark smile in his bag of tricks. He pulls it out, dons it, and closes his eyes. Anticipation burns him, licks him like those explosive flames.

Step one involved a couple of damaged buildings. The only casualties were a handful of people admitted to the hospital, suffering first and second degree burns, coupled with mild smoke inhalation. There are no fatalities listed.

Step two? Step two, he’s thinking bigger. Much, much bigger.

***


	23. [2/4] Episode 5: Beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’m really super sorry this took me a few extra days. I meant to finish this up over the weekend, but then there was 20+ inches of snow, and that meant a lot of digging out. At the end of the day, I was tired, sore, and soggy. Not fun. Also, this chapter lingered on boring to me, and I really struggle when posting something I consider to be boring. Last, that bathtub line? Not mine. Stole it from a comic I read many years ago, but it fit too well to pass up.
> 
> 02/12/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).

***

Barry returns to S.T.A.R. Labs perhaps thirty minutes after he leaves, smelling of smoke and ash and fire. The man known as Harrison Wells must suppress a smile as Barry pulls back his cowl. The young man’s expression melts to pure bliss as he scratches a spot on his scalp, previously unreachable, and Harrison can see there are sooty marks on the exposed areas of his face. The two black eyes he now sports are reminiscent of a raccoon, and the large, long mark curving around the top of his lips is similar to an overgrown mustache.

Harrison also simultaneously suppresses a sneer, because he is currently reading an anonymous blog on the internet. One that is clearly the work of Iris West, because it speaks of the rescue of the window washer which just occurred thirty minutes prior, and which neatly explains her presence at Barry’s first crime scene. It doesn’t excuse the frivolous and downright awful language she’s used to describe Barry and his exploits though. Honestly, “The Streak is electric in his intensity,” and “The man in red is striking – an avenging angel descended to save our city from its sins,” aren’t even the worst of the garbage he’s had to sift through.

“Mission accomplished,” Barry says, fingers still digging with ferocious intent, and he breathes out a sigh of relief. “God, that feels amazing.”

“One of those buildings was in the slums,” Harrison points out mildly. “Did you catch fleas?”

There is a perplexed sort of concern that crosses Barry’s face as he considers the statement, and in response, Harrison’s lips quirk up. 

“Oh,” Barry says, a mix of exasperation and delight. “Oh, you’re _teasing_ me. That’s. I mean, you _monster_. I just dove into four burning buildings. _Four_.”

“And I’m sure the loved ones of those persons who you rescued are very grateful to you for it. However, I happen to like both licorice and reading well enough. I’m almost positive I don’t fit Cisco’s – admittedly biased – criteria,” Harrison replies.

“All I’m saying,” Barry says, with a grin that could threaten a total eclipse of the sun, “is that I’m a hero and I deserve a little respect. Instead, I get told I might have fleas.”

“So I suppose,” Harrison replies faintly, looking back to the blog on the screen so that he doesn’t get caught up in that lethal smile, “now is a poor time to mention that you have soot on your face and you look rather ridiculous?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Barry’s eyes widen, hinting at mild panic. “You’re not kidding. Fuck!” And then the young man is gone, presumably to wash his face and change out of his suit.

The man known as Harrison Wells takes a deep, calming breath. He glances over at where Cisco and Caitlin are slumped over in their chairs, snoring loudly, and contemplates on leaving them there for the night. Barry could, in theory, drop them off at their respective homes with ease. But then, where is the lesson to be learned about drinking to the point of stupidity?

Then, the scattered rustle of papers and Barry stands before him once more. His face has been scoured clean, the red flush of his cheeks stemming only partially from embarrassment. The young man must have splashed water onto his face from one of the bathroom sinks because there are a few dewy drops that cling persistently to his bangs.

Without preamble, Barry points a finger at Harrison and says, “You. You are a bad man.”

“I have never tried to claim otherwise,” Harrison replies honestly with a half smile.

Abruptly, Barry backpedals. “Oh, hey now. None of that serious stuff. You’re a good man – hell, a great man – and you know it. But when it comes to fleas and face-soot, apparently, you’re just plain mean.” Then, in a painfully obvious attempt to change the subject, he asks, “What are you reading?”

“Your foster-sister’s anonymous blog,” Harrison replies, allowing the change of topic because it’s convenient. “She’s quite taken with the Streak, it seems. And she’s also quite taken with the idea of making sure that everyone _else_ in this city knows about you, as well.”

“Uhg,” Barry grumbles as he glances over the rather flattering article. “Seriously, Iris? I hate social media. Right now, most people don’t know the Streak actually exists. The minute I come out of the proverbial closet, half the people in this city are going to want my head on a plate.”

“And the other half?”

“Are going to claim they’ve had my babies,” Barry frowns. “I’ll be so busy drowning in fictionalized paternity suits, I won’t have the time to rescue anyone.”

“That’s a fairly bleak outlook,” Harrison says dryly and without much sympathy. “Dare I ask on what research you’re basing this opinion?”

“Every comic book I’ve ever read,” Barry grumbles. “Seriously, though. This blog? This blog is _not_ my friend.”

“Why don’t you ask her – as the Streak – to stop? If she respects what you’re trying to do for this city, she should respect your wishes as well,” Harrison suggests as he closes the blog, clicking the window on the screen shut.

“Have you ever met Iris before?” Barry says with a wry twist of his lips. “Because as much as I love her, there’s only one guarantee I can offer when it comes to the things she wants. It doesn’t matter how much she cares about me or my opinions – if she’s convinced she’s right, there is no power in this ‘verse that can stop her.”

Barry leans against a nearby counter, giving Harrison a considering look, then says, “So, on an unrelated note, I have a question for you.”

“Continue,” Harrison quirks an eyebrow as he leans back in his wheelchair.

“Do you – well, okay, _did_ you – hire someone to destroy the blood – um, my blood – at the theater?” Barry nibbles his lower lip. “Because if it wasn’t you, I’m stumped.”

“Curious,” Harrison says. “So, if I’m reading the situation correctly, you realized the blood could lead the police to discovering your secret identity, but before you could destroy the samples, someone else already had? And by your confusion, I’m going to assume you’ve already spoken to Detective West about this, and he wasn’t responsible either?”

“Basically,” Barry agrees, teeth still tugging anxiously at his lip. “I bled – well, I bled all over that crime scene, to be honest. I figured I’d either steal the samples directly from the lab, or if possible, sabotage them. Thing is? I didn’t have the chance because someone put a rush order through on them. It didn’t matter though, because every sample taken from the scene had already been compromised – someone sprayed it all with sodium hydroxide. Joe had no idea until I asked him about it.”

“Most curious,” Harrison repeats. “And something to keep an eye on. Who had access to the crime scene? Who has the knowledge needed to destroy DNA evidence? And of the people who meet those first two categories, who desires to protect your identity? I can guarantee you that neither Caitlin nor Cisco is the perpetrator, which leaves us with a very short list of suspects. In fact, I can only think of one person it might be.”

“The mystery shooter,” Barry replies easily. “That’s what I was thinking, too. It’s just. I’m really tired of surprises, I guess.” The young man offers Harrison another wry smile. “Is it really so much to ask for something in my life to be – I don’t know – _straightforward_?

“Now where,” Harrison replies, giving Barry a slow, deliberate look, “would be the fun in that?”

***

The next day brings an unpleasant surprise in the rotund shape of General Wade Eiling. Granted, the beginning of the day starts well enough, with Cisco and Caitlin falling out of their folding chairs nearly simultaneously, stinking of overly pungent alcohol and horrific embarrassment. Thankfully, both of them have several changes of clothing on the premise, and Cisco even finds a tumbler of mouthwash, which he generously splits with Caitlin.

“Why did last night seem like a good idea at the time?” Caitlin murmurs, her eyes closed tightly to ward off the bright, florescent overhead lighting.

“For science,” Cisco mutters under his breath like a curse. Then, plaintively, “My kingdom for three aspirin.”

Not much gets done in the grand scheme of things, but the man known as Harrison Wells finds himself rather entertained regardless. Still, when Barry speeds in after work, his two employees have gathered enough wits between them help track down a woman who may be their metaflavor of the week.

“A VA file number is all the info you have on the bomber?” Cisco complains without any real heat.

“Well, it’s all I have on the bomber from the first crime scene I saw today,” Barry amends. “And she’s the one I’m most concerned about, since the CCPD’s been ordered off the case.”

“Who has the power to do that?” Caitlin asks. Barry glances at the oversized sunglasses she’s currently sporting, but says nothing. “And what do you mean ‘first crime scene.’ How many crime scenes did you visit today?”

“In order,” Barry replies, “Some jerk-faced army general and five.” Here, he gives both Cisco and Caitlin a pointed, grumpy look. “After you two crazy kids passed out last night, there were four more explosions that happened almost simultaneously, and for those four events, I can actually give you a pretty good rundown on the bomber and their MO. It’s the first explosion – the one where I rescued the window washer? – that’s really strange.” 

“I had heard that General Eiling was back in town,” the man known as Harrison Wells sighs, rolling his wheelchair into the cortex. “I’m rather – irked – to find that’s actually the case.”

Surprised, Barry asks, “You know him?” 

“Unfortunately, yes. Ten years ago, General Eiling contracted S.T.A.R. Labs to develop enhanced gene therapies for soldiers,” Harrison reveals with a grimace. “I had a personal interest in the medical aspects that might benefit civilians, but as it turned out, all Eiling really wanted was to develop psychic abilities for interrogation purposes.”

“That’s a little,” Cisco makes a face, “um. Wacky science fiction?”

“While there are some scientific studies that support the possibility, the General’s techniques were not – well, let us simply say, our split was less than amicable.” Harrison doesn’t bother disguising the disgust in his voice. Honestly, even thinking about Eiling still irritates him to some degree – a wasted resource, time and thought spent on a man whose true danger lies in ignorance and fear.

“Well, he took all the evidence I collected from the first bombing,” Barry says, “but I did hang onto this one folder, hence the VA file number. Can you get anything off it, Cisco?”

“Lucky for us, the VA finally joined the new millennium and digitized their records,” Cisco replies, fingers flying over the keyboard as he locates the file. “So, there’s a lot of redacted info, but our girl’s name is – Bette Sans Souci. She’s an EOD specialist for the army.”

“EOD?” Caitlin asks, peeking over Cisco’s shoulder. Her sunglasses slip down her nose with the movement before she pushes them back into place.

“Bombs,” Cisco elaborates.

“Is there an address?” Barry asks. “Anything that we can use to find her?”

“Um,” Cisco says, looking over the information. “Hang on, here we go. There’s an emergency contacted listed, one Cameron Scott. Cross-referencing that name through the database, and the last known residence is – Inglewood!”

Barry clasps Cisco’s shoulder and smiles warmly, “Nice work. Okay, I’ll be back.” He makes a dash for his suit and is gone before the young engineer can reply. After a few minutes, Barry’s voice comes through the com-link, carrying a hint of cocky authority. “Bette Sans Souci? I need you to come with me.”

A woman’s voice, her words an indistinct murmur, and then – the suit’s monitoring system abruptly shuts off. Harrison’s eyes narrow as he maneuvers his chair to sit beside Cisco who frowns and tries to bring the suit back online remotely. “What the hell?” Cisco mutters.

“Barry?” Caitlin leans over both of them, pressing the button to the com-link. “Barry, can you hear me?”

“There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for why the suit’s not working,” Cisco says.

And then, Barry Allen stands in the middle of the cortex in nothing but his underwear. Honestly, he looks more irritated than embarrassed by this fact. His expression is mutinous, though Harrison can’t find it in him to share the young man’s ire. Barry’s body, post-lightning, is pale. His build is that of a long-distance runner, muscles sleek and toned. He is lean, and there is a soft, dusty trail of fine hair that peeks out from the top of his boxers and winds gingerly up his chest.

Harrison allows himself a moment – only that – to indulge in what he admits, privately, is an excellent view.

“Um–” Caitlin says cleverly.

“Don’t ask,” Barry grits out. He stalks to the other room and grabs a shirt.

“Where’s my suit?” Cisco says flatly.

“It’s gone,” Barry replies, pulling the shirt over his head and tugging it down to cover his chest.

“What do you mean ‘it’s gone,’” Cisco says, voice rising in steady, angry increments. “What did you do with my suit?”

Barry sighs, clearly sensing this conversation is going to happen with or without his permission. “Look, Cisco, it blew up, okay? Fun fact about Bette Sans Souci? She doesn’t _carry_ bombs. She touched the emblem on the suit, and it _became_ a bomb.”

“Were you injured?” Harrison asks, since clearly last nights’ drinking has affected both Caitlin and Cisco to serious detriment, if neither of them has thought to ask this already. 

“I’m. Um.” Barry has apparently just noticed the show he’s been putting on as he blushes beet red to find Harrison’s eyes on him. “I’m fine, thanks. I got the suit off before it went up in flames, thankfully.” The young man ducks out of the room then, presumably to find a pair of pants.

Cisco clutches at his head with both hands. “She blew up my suit. Who does that?”

“You have three more,” Caitlin says. Harrison can’t quite tell if she’s being comforting or facetious.

“I have two,” Cisco says sharply as his hands drop from his head to the keypad. He begins to type furiously. “And I _loved_ that one. This girl is going _down_. No one blows my tech to smithereens and gets away with it...”

The young engineer trails off. “Unless they look like that.” He calls out, “Oh my god, Barry! Why didn’t you say she was fucking hot?”

Fully clothed, Barry strides back into the cortex. “Um. Her hotness is relative to her ability to makes things explode? And I kind of thought the fact that she’s a metahuman is more important?”

“I want it noted for the record that I strongly disagree,” Cisco says, still staring at Bette’s picture on the screen. “Seriously, I would crawl over broken glass on my belly just to lick her bathtub with my tongue.” At Caitlin’s disapproving look, he says, “What? I would.”

“So,” Barry says, moving to stand by Harrison’s wheelchair as he proceeds to ignore Cisco, “On the plus side, I really don’t think Bette was trying to hurt me. It seemed like she didn’t have control of her power.”

“Her metahuman ability certainly explains General Eiling’s interest in her,” Harrison replies.

Barry’s eyes narrow. “He wants to use her. Turn her into a weapon.” Those bright, blue eyes are like cold steel, and it’s fascinating for the man known as Harrison Wells. A month of being ‘the Streak’ has turned Barry Allen from a young, somewhat introverted man, into this. Inspiring, decisive. “We have to find her before he does.”

***

Leonard Snart stares at the map pinned to his wall, frowning. He’s checked his calculations, and he’s narrowed down the Streak’s base of operation to a twelve-block radius which encompasses a handful of apartment buildings, several large warehouses and office buildings, and the massive S.T.A.R. Laboratories. Finding the man in red should be fairly easy from here, though it will require a bit of observation.

“Hey, Mick,” he calls out. “How many men can you gather for a short term stakeout, lasting roughly three hours, tomorrow night?”

Mick pokes his head around the corner of the room, a beer in his hand. “Why?” he responds gruffly. “How many you need?”

***

Finding Bette the second time actually proves easier than the first, as Cisco decides to let General Eiling’s forces do the work for him and simply hacks directly into the army’s operation. Barry, being the inspiring young man that he is, has no trouble convincing Bette to come with him, and he carries her at super-speed to safety. It is then that Team S.T.A.R. explains to the woman that her condition is the result of the explosion of the particle accelerator, and that despite her original suspicions, General Wade Eiling is incapable of engineering the circumstances of her creation. 

Because really? Eiling is a hack. He can cut open and dissect and stick his fat fingers where they don’t belong, but he will never be able to do more than imitate when it comes to true genius. He is only clever enough to recognize something of value when it stares him in the face. 

Cisco makes a fool of himself in front of Bette, but apparently a woman in the army is used to dealing with unpolished behavior, as she doesn’t make a run for it immediately. In fact, she gives Caitlin blanket permission to run all non-invasive tests and take samples to her hearts content. Still, things are running too smoothly because it’s about then that Caitlin realizes Bette has a tracker on her which leads Eiling directly to S.T.A.R. Labs’ doorstep.

The man known as Harrison Wells resists the urge to sigh. Instead, he rolls his wheelchair out to the elevator’s entrance to meet and greet the overbearing and pompous General. In the end, as he meets the man’s beady gaze without much surprise, he can only hope tomorrow will end on a better note. Perhaps with the General’s very timely demise? _Wouldn’t that be a treat,_ he muses.

“Harrison Wells,” Eiling says, taking in the wheelchair with a sneer. “How the mighty have fallen.”

“General,” Harrison replies with a small smile. “Fallen, you say? You’d know all about that, I suppose. Last I’d heard, you’d taken on three separate military projects with three separate non-military companies. What ever came of those?” His eyes narrow, and his smile is sharp enough to cut.

Eiling’s lips twist. Instead of responding to the obvious stab, he says, “This place used to be so important. Tell me, what does one do after such a spectacular, public failure?”

“One adapts. One evolves, ” Harrison replies. “One becomes – intent – on reversing one’s fortune.”

“Always the idealist,” Eiling says. “Where’s my asset, Wells? We tracked her here. Turn her over to me, or I will dismantle this sad little building brick by brick until I find her.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Harrison says, shaking his head. “But your – asset? She’s not here, Wade. And as entertaining as I might have once found it, to go through these steps with you – these days? These days, I’m not much for dancing.” 

The General snorts. “We could have changed to world, you and me.”

“On that we agree,” Harrison replies lightly. “But I can guarantee you wouldn’t have been pleased with the results. I’ll trust you to see yourself out, General.”

***


	24. [3/4] Episode 5: The Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was going to be three chapters, but there's entirely too much clean up that needs to happen, so there will be yet another chapter for episode 5 after this one. This story is out of control. Anyway, thank you all so much for reading!
> 
> 02/12/16: Minor revisions (BetaStar).

***

After the “jerk-faced” army general – Barry’s words are, quite possibly, the most accurate description of Eiling ever vocalized – makes his retreat, Harrison directs his wheelchair back to the cortex. He browses through the video footage to make sure that none of the General’s men left any bugs, then presses the button for the overhead intercom. 

“Eiling and his men have left the building, if all of you would care to join me in the cortex,” he says, keeping an eye on the surveillance cameras. Cisco and Barry are both in plain view in the lab area, and at his words Barry disappears, trailing electricity down to the pipeline. The young man keys the code into one of the cells, and the sliding, metal doors part to reveal Caitlin and Bette, sitting Indian-style on the floor across from each other. It appears they are playing a makeshift game of Go Fish, where Caitlin holds Bette’s cards up so that only the other woman can see them, then places them face down on the ground when Caitlin herself takes a turn. Considering how little they know of Bette’s explosive abilities and her relative lack of control, it’s a fair precaution.

Harrison briefly considers the novelty of explosive playing cards before dismissing it as ridiculous. Paper is notoriously difficult to throw, unless it has been crumpled into a ball or folded into a plane, and even then air currents play entirely too large and imprecise a role for true accuracy to be achieved.

Cisco shuffles through the doorway, scrubbing his hands furiously across his face. “God, that guy sucks. I mean, his little soldier minions were all up in pretty much everything in the lab, which sucked. And they were nosy about everything and asked really pointless, leading questions, which sucked. I guess I should be grateful they didn’t try to confiscate any of my stuff, which really, really would have sucked.” The young engineer makes a face at Harrison. “They can’t do that, can they?”

“Legally,” Harrison replies, “not without a warrant, which the good General can obtain by providing hard evidence that we are harboring Ms. Sans Souci. Evidence which, at this point, he doesn’t have. Still, I’m sure he has two or three judges in his pocket if he does decide to go that route, though at this time, it’s unlikely he’ll bother. He is very much aware that I can place his – investigation – in the spotlight with a single phone call.”

“Legally,” Cisco echoes. “He – um – he doesn’t strike me as the sort of guy who’s all that bothered by ‘legally’ versus ‘illegally.’ Just saying.”

The man known as Harrison Wells gives Cisco a small, tight smile. “For someone who has never technically met the General, what a remarkably astute observation, Cisco.”

Cisco gets a funny look on his face. He opens his mouth to say something more, but apparently decides against it as Barry walks into the cortex, followed by Caitlin and Bette Sans Souci. 

Bette moves to the center of the room, turning to face them as she shifts her stance to a parade rest. Her feet are shoulder-distance apart, and her hands settle at the small of her back. Despite the loose set of her shoulders, her expression is resolute, prepared for battle. “He’s never going to leave me alone,” she says without preamble. “Which means that nowhere is safe. I’m sorry for putting you all at risk but I think I should leave. The sooner, the better.”

“Bette, no!” Caitlin is the first to step forward, surprisingly enough. Or perhaps it’s not such a stretch, Harrison muses – he can see the parallels between these two talented women, both of whom have been shunned from society, incidentally or out of necessity, for something they cannot control. “We’ve only run a handful of tests today, but I know with enough time, with more data, we can _help_ you.”

“Help me,” Bette scoffs. “How can you help someone like me? Dr. Snow, when we were down in that cell, you told me – you told me that the shrapnel in my body merged with me on a cellular level. That the technology needed to fix me – it doesn’t exist yet. Barry’s abilities are – amazing. He can do so much _good_ with them. Me? I can blow stuff up. How does that help anyone?”

Barry’s expression is livid. “You’re not – you’re not just some _weapon_ , Bette,” he says. “And yeah, your ability is dangerous. But – well, do you know anything about physics?” At the shake of her head, he continues, “Mass times acceleration equals force. Do you have _any_ idea how much force I could generate in a single punch? I could – I can – kill someone, with a hit like that. If I’m not careful, I mean.”

Bette’s lips part into a surprised “oh.” Clearly, she didn’t expect that notion that Barry Allen, with his sunshine smiles and his heart on his sleeve, is capable of doing harm to another human being. She recovers quickly though and replies, “But your ability isn’t – I mean, speed doesn’t have the same inherent dangers as explosives. I was an EOD specialist for years. I know how much harm even a small explosion can cause.”

Barry’s frustration is evident as he says, “You – you’re not _listening_ to me. My ability is two-sided. There are positives, and I can do so much good with it, but like everything else in this world, there are negatives, and I could really hurt someone. Why can’t you understand that your ability is like that, too?”

 _Saint Barry_ , Harrison thinks, distant and amazed. This self-sacrificing forgiveness is a dangerous trend.

Bette’s expression wavers, and sensing that hesitation, Caitlin takes another step forward. “You already know the dangers,” she says. “Won’t you let us help you discover the benefits?”

“I just. I don’t see how there can _be_ any benefits,” Bette says softly. Her eyes have the faintest shine to them as she looks away. Her voice wavers a little, and she swallows once, as if she can choke back the emotion that Barry and Caitlin’s kindness have pulled from her, unwilling.

Barry turns to Harrison, and there is so much raw emotion there, a perfectly horrible tangle of hope and faith and the earnest belief that Harrison will be able to offer some solution or insight. Barry looks at him as though he thinks Harrison will be able to _make things right_ and it’s. It’s.

Bette Sans Souci is a liability. Her ability is dangerously unpredictable, and her connection to the army is problematic. General Wade Eiling, while not particularly clever, is a resourceful cockroach and not an enemy that Harrison wants to make. 

On the other hand, Bette is a soldier. She is trained to follow orders, and it’s likely that her loyalty, once given, is as solid and unyielding as steel or stone. And if Eiling becomes too much of a problem – well – accidents happen. The man known as Harrison Wells is _very_ good at making accidents happen.

Harrison sighs. “While I cannot say for certain without further testing, I would like to note that the one thing we were able to establish is that your entire physiology has been altered – your internal nitrogen levels are off the chart. While nitro-glycerines are commonly explosive, on a chemical level, nitrogen has several other properties. Perhaps with some training, you might be able to harness them.”

Bette’s expression turns cautious. “Like what?” she asks hesitantly.

Cisco, who has been silent up to this point, says, “Oh!” so loudly that all attention is instantly drawn to him. He grins sheepishly. “Sorry, sorry. Just. Seriously, Dr. Wells, you’re a genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”

To the side, Caitlin and Barry are having similar eureka-moments.

“What?” Bette asks, swiveling her head as she tries to look at all of them simultaneously. “What are you talking about?”

With another grin, this one much, much lighter, as if a weight has been pulled from his shoulders, Cisco says, “Nitrogen is in a lot of stuff, but – if you’re afraid of hurting someone by accidentally creating a bomb? First, we need to see if you can reproduce the effects of _liquid_ nitrogen. Freezing one of your nitrogen bombs on an atomic level should ‘defuse’ it, in theory anyway.”

Caitlin nods, smiling brightly as she continues, “Right! If Bette’s bombs are composed of highly reactive nitrogen – atoms vibrating extremely quickly and colliding with each other – then freezing them would slow down the rate at which the atoms vibrate, which in turn stops the collision, which means–”

“–no detonation, no more explosions!” Barry finishes, and the look he gives Harrison is immaculate gratitude, coupled with something like – pride? It gives him a fleeting moment of warmth, which he ruthlessly crushes because it shouldn’t – doesn’t, damnnit – matter. It doesn’t matter that Barry Allen is proud of him for offering hope to this pathetic runaway of a woman. She’s been dead for centuries – everyone on this forsaken rock is dead, dead, dead – and all that matters is making a way home.

But this notion is becoming harder to hold onto, more difficult to balance, because the only person who does matter is Barry Allen. Barry Allen, whose eyes linger with intention and desire, whose expression says that _Harrison_ is the only thing that matters. It’s intoxicating and frustrating, and what’s worse is that the young man is completely unaware of the internal conflict he is causing with his fucking earnest nature and intrinsic kindness.

The man known as Harrison Wells indulges in a momentary reorientation. He envisions himself pinning the Flash against a wall and bashing his skull into unforgiving brick and mortar until something caves. It’s wholly satisfying until the point where he looks into Barry’s lifeless eyes and realizes he likes them better when they are focused and intent – on Harrison himself – not glassy and clouded. Fuck.

“–at least when it comes to touching things,” Cisco is saying, when Harrison refocuses on the conversation. “We’ll have to do some experimenting to see if there’s a surefire way to protect organics, though.”

Caitlin nods encouragingly, then implores, “Let us help you, Bette? At least, let us try?”

There is a helpless sort of wonder in Bette’s eyes. As a soldier, she knows she is replaceable, so this indication that Caitlin values her – and desires to help her – as a human being? It’s clearly overwhelming. She blinks rapidly, her eyes still gleaming, and says roughly, “That’s – yeah. Okay.”

***

Leonard Snart is excited. His body is taut with anticipation, a tingle of high-strung energy that tickles the pit of his stomach. He redirects some of that nervous energy, rocks on the balls of his heels, and takes a deep breath, slow through his nose, then out through his mouth. It doesn’t calm him in the least, so he tries again, but his heart beats hard and heavy in his chest. 

It’s – exhilarating. He’s done the research, and there is a weight in the pocket of his parka he can feel with every step he takes. He finds his fingers brushing by it just to tease himself, to make his heart leap in his chest and his pulse pound like the perfect base line on a stereo. 

Tonight, there are two targets. Two trains, heading out from the same station at approximately the same time but in opposite directions. The police response time to an attack on the station itself is an impressive three hundred and eighteen seconds. If Len times things properly, allowing the trains to travel some distance from the city before derailing them – well, it will take the police far more than five minutes to reach the site of either wreck.

Train A is heading to Starling City. Train B follows the coastline, up, up, up, and its first stop is the aptly named Fishertown. These two trains are the last trains to depart from the station this night.

If Len wanted to maximize civilian casualties, he would have picked trains departing during peak hours. Clearly, this is not his intention. Though there will likely be a few deaths involved, this is a side effect, not the main event. There’s also a smaller chance – not impossible, just unlikely – of children boarding these particular late-night trains. He’s not a complete monster, thank you.

Leonard Snart will be on Train A when it departs from the city, waiting for a call on his cell phone from Mick Rory. Because Train B? Train B has a pack of thermal charges buried near the track about three minutes out from the city. The detonator sits heavy in Len’s pocket, and will be passed off to Mick in a few hours. Mick will keep an eye on things from a distance and activate the explosives by remote. After Len gets the okay that Train B has derailed – and consequently, that the upstanding police officers and firefighters of Central City are thoroughly distracted by the mess that it has caused – Len will use his coldgun to wreck Train A. 

By Len’s estimation, the Streak will be at the wreck of Train B even before the police arrive, trying to save as many people as he can. With help already on the way to the scene of Train B, when the call comes in for Train A – considering the speed of the man in red, it should take him little to no time to make his way to the second wreck. While the Streak is distracted with the chaos and confusion, Len will have an opportunity use his coldgun – 

– and oh, he has plans for this. He will not kill the Streak tonight, but he will hurt him, and hurt him badly. He has questions that demand answers, and not just the obvious ones like, “Why did you kill Nora Allen?” That line will come later, following “How long will it take you to heal if I break each of your fingers with a hammer?” and “Which hurts more at point blank range, my coldgun or Mick’s flame-thrower?” Or perhaps, “If you are a man of lightning, how much damage will this car battery actually cause you?” Because really, inquiring minds want to know.

Leonard Snart will torture the man in red until he’s begging to provide some answers into the mysterious death of Nora Allen, and then – then Len will cut him loose. Perhaps he’ll give the ropes enough slack so that the Streak can wiggle his way out of them, or maybe he’ll have Mick pretend sympathy and release him when Len’s not looking. Alone, beaten, and in agony, the Streak will run back to his base of operation – and Len has three dozen men and just as many cameras strategically covering every block of where he suspects the impossible man will run.

All of this – every last bit from the train wrecks to the torture – is designed to help Len find the Streak’s secret lair. Because yeah, sure, Len can torture the man, eagerly, with fervor and zeal and possibly even joy. Len can even kill him with cold-hearted ease. But the Streak? The Streak has _partners_.

There is at least one man or woman – possibly more – who supports the man in red. Someone who keeps his fancy suit in good repair. Someone who helps to patch him up from bullet wounds and industrial-grade freezer burn. Someone who wants to protect the impossible man, someone who cares.

Someone, Leonard Snart thinks with a smirk, who the Streak cares for in _return_.

Because really? A quick death isn’t what Len’s after. He will break the Streak’s friends, torture his family, and leave the man himself a shuddering, twisted wreck. And after the Streak has been made to suffer – after the things that matter most are torn from his bloody hands, so that he fucking well _knows_ the end result is entirely his fault – that’s when Len will pull back that cowl, take a single, long look at the face of a man who has had his world ripped asunder, and kindly put a bullet in his skull.

***

The thing with the trains? It’s a good plan. A solid plan.

It goes to shit in about two minutes.

***

There is chaos all around, overturned train cars and people screaming for help. There is ice on the tracks and fire near the front engine of the train and the stars overhead shine like diamonds. Leonard Snart stands above the Streak, his coldgun trained with unerring accuracy on the impossible man who gives a strange, pained moan from where he is pinned by ice to the ground. It was so fucking _easy_ to capture this man, and everything is _perfect_.

And then a woman screams, “Get away from him!”

Len glances up, and there’s a beautiful redhead with a snarl on her face. She’s running towards them, but as far as he can tell, she isn’t armed. He hesitates, just for a moment, then whips his coldgun around to take a shot at her. Only she’s bending down as she barrels forward, scooping a handful of rocks up in one hand as she goes, and in her hand, they begin to glow, a strange, neon purple – 

The woman throws the rocks at him, and he listens to his instincts which are also screaming at him – _run, duck_ – and the rocks explode. He is thrown off his feet by the shockwave and tiny pebbles rain down on him as he gasps on the ground, dazed. His ears ring like someone has boxed them soundly, and this is impossible. It’s – like the man in the lightning – fuck, it’s impossible and now there are _two_ of them.

The Streak is still pinned to the ground, but the woman is grabbing another handful of rocks, and they glow instantly as she touches them. She hurls them at Len and he staggers to his feet, falling over himself as he scrambles to find something to hide behind. He manages to get behind a piece of one of the overturned train cars just in time. Another explosion shakes the area as the rocks explode.

“Status,” he hears the woman bark out.

The Streak croaks, “Fuck – burns so – so bad–” in reply. Well, Len might have been a little liberal with the use of his coldgun. He shot the man six times. Ish. Then, “What are you–”

Len peaks around the corner of the train car. The woman kicks a stray sheet of metal wreckage over the Streak’s prone form, to protect him? Len aims his coldgun at the woman, and pulls the trigger. The ice cuts through the air and the woman isn’t quick enough to dodge; she takes a direct hit on her shoulder. Her eyes glow, purple and terrifying, and she frowns in confusion. She rolls her shoulders, both of them, and the frozen cloth on the one shatters like delicate icicles, but the skin underneath is unblemished.

A woman who can makes bombs out of nothing and is apparently immune to freezing temperatures, and holy fuck, is this Central City now? Is it something in the water? Leonard Snart is not stupid. If there is one impossible human being, then there are two. Where there are two, there must be more. How many more is the question, and what else can they do? Where do they come from, and why are they only just now appearing?

While Len’s brain is working in overdrive, his body moves of its own accord, as he ducks and rolls behind another larger, bent piece of metal from the train. He holsters his coldgun, then pulls out his traditional sidearm instead. He sees the woman moves to grab another handful of rocks when a bullet whizzes right by her head. She freezes, and Len hears a commanding voice shout, “Stand down, soldier!”

There is a noise like thunder and there are two dozen soldiers, dressed in fatigues, armed to the teeth and marching forward like something out of a movie. In the lead is an aging man who holds himself like someone important, and he’s staring at the woman with a weird little smile on his face.

“You don’t get to give me orders any more, General,” the woman sneers. “You lost that right when you and that damned doctor tried to _dissect_ me.”

Len counts the soldiers – not quite a full two dozen – and inventories their weapons. He keeps track of their positions in regards to the woman, the Streak, and himself. It doesn’t appear that any of the men are aware he’s hiding behind this train car, and really? He’s entirely fine with that. While he might have been able to factor the exploding-woman into his plans on the fly, but there’s no way he’s going to be able to juggle her and what appears to be an entire platoon of soldiers, so his best bet is to sneak to his getaway vehicle while everyone is distracted.

“We were trying to understand what happened to you, soldier. Don’t you understand what a gift you’ve been given?”

The woman makes a scoffing sound.

“You are a weapon of unparalleled ability, and in the right hands, you could obliterate this country's enemies–”

“Your enemies, you mean,” the redhead spits out. “I’m not stupid, Eiling–”

“A pity,” the General – Eiling? – replies. “It would have made things so much easier.” 

Len isn’t quite sure what happens then. The woman goes for a handful of rocks, tossing them at the soldiers who duck and dive for cover. The explosions shake the ground, but Eiling holds steady and raises his gun, and there is a shot – 

– only both the woman and the General go down at the same time. Both of them appear to have been shot, nearly simultaneously. There is blood on the redhead’s shoulder, and if Len had to guess, he’d say that the bullet that put her down came from the General’s gun. But Eiling is also on the ground, grabbing his shoulder to staunch the blood flow, and Len has no idea who shot the man or why.

Is it someone else who’s working with the Streak, maybe? But why wouldn’t they have shot at Len, earlier? 

Leonard Snart ducks back behind his cover, looking frantically left, then right. He can’t see anyone who looks particularly suspicious, but there are still a handful of men and woman who are scattered around from the train wreck, and the gunshots and the bombs have incited quite a bit of panic and screaming, on top of the panic and screaming left over from the crash. This is the time to make his escape, if he’s looking to get out of here without drawing the attention of the military.

“Get Sans Souci!” the General is screaming, red-faced and furious, and Len peeks over and sees that in the panic, several soldiers are pulling Eiling to safety and two brave men have grabbed the woman’s body and are carrying her to where the army’s trucks are parked some distance away. Len doesn’t think that the woman – Sans Souci? – is dead. In fact, he’s almost positive that he can see her chest rise and fall, and it doesn’t look like the wound on her shoulder is bleeding heavily at all. Still, she’s not struggling so she’s probably unconscious.

Deciding he’s seen enough for the time being, Len spares one quick glance at where the Streak is still pinned to the ground, hidden by the wreckage from the train, and realizes that the man is likely unconscious as well. It isn’t safe to make a grab for him though, because there are police sirens in the distance and the army is scattering and this situation is not a plan coming together, it’s a clusterfuck.

There are too many variables. The explosive woman. The army’s presence. The ass-hat General. The oncoming police.

Len cuts his loses for the day and runs. He does have to snort at the irony – that he’s currently hightailing it off the scene of this crime more quickly than even the fastest man alive.

***


	25. [4/4] Episode 5: The Beast, Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There has been (a surprising amount of) interest in the mystery shooter. The reveal on this particular plot development is going to be quite a while in the making, but I will confirm two things that several people have asked about: 
> 
> No, the character is definitely not an OC.  
> Yes, time travel may be involved. 
> 
> Beyond that? Well~ it's a mystery for a reason :D Thank you, as always for reading, and to those lovely people who have been so kind as to leave me continual comments and feedback? Thank you, thank you, thank you. You keep me writing. Seriously.

***

The fluorescent bulbs that hang overhead in S.T.A.R. Labs infirmary are identical to those in every other room and hallway, and yet nowhere else does this waxy light cast itself so cruelly. The lighting lends a certain sallow pallor to Barry’s skin, and the black rot – dead, flaky skin on Barry’s bare chest that must be periodically removed before cellular regeneration and repair is possible – looks like something from a horror film. In fact, coupled with the young man’s shallow half-breaths, and the unforgiving white of the stiff sheets, at first glance, Barry looks like a corpse laid bare, awaiting autopsy in the morgue.

The man known as Harrison Wells sits by Barry’s bedside in the infirmary. Perhaps he will make two plaques. The first, of course, is “Barry’s Bed,” to be hung at the foot of the impersonal hospital gurney. The second is “Harrison’s Spot,” complete with two white lines drawn on the ground like a parking space. There is no point in pretending that this is not Harrison’s place; he sits here every time the young man is injured enough to warrant medical attention.

Barry Allen is injured enough to warrant medical attention _often_.

Something must be done about Leonard Snart and his coldgun. The criminal is far too liberal in his use of the weapon, and Barry’s advanced healing has been compromised one time too many, in Harrison’s opinion. Thanks to Bette Sans Souci’s interference, the damage was minimal, compared to what it might have been, but Snart is growing bolder, more ruthless in his pursuit of the impossible man in red.

Granted, watching Leonard Snart destroy the one he holds dearest in a infantile fit of rage makes a very short list of the most enjoyable series of events Harrison has watched unfold in this century. But Snart has impinged on certain, marked territory with his attacks on the Flash, and the man known as Harrison Wells has never been famous for sharing.

Barry’s monitors blink and beep, a monotonous audio and visual combination of static in the background. Harrison glances at his watch, and the sigh pulled unwillingly from his lips is equal parts frustration and irritation. It has been – what, six hours? – since Caitlin burst into S.T.A.R. Labs with Joe West in tow, Barry’s lifeless form slung limply over one broad shoulder, and not a single sign of Bette to be found. 

As per usual, saving Barry’s life is a whirlwind flurry of crash carts and desperate injections with oversized needles – oxygen masks, chest compressions, IV tubes – helplessness and the sound of monitors flat-lining only to be miraculously revived by Dr. Snow’s frantic ministrations and Barry’s innate ability to bounce back from virtually anything.

And now? Now Harrison waits. Ponders. Observes. Postulates.

First, there is something afoot with Cisco Ramon. Harrison closes his eyes, bringing up a mental visual, recalling every detail with exquisite precision – 

– when the first report of the overturned train comes, it is business as usual. As Barry disappears through the open doorway, places are taken by the computer as Caitlin explains to Bette what it is they do to support “the Streak” from a distance. Everything is normal, and yet there is an expression on Cisco’s face that sets off silent alarms. There is a twist to his lips, a strange contortion of his brow. It is this strange, confused expression that prompts Caitlin to inquire what is wrong.

Cisco shakes his head. Replies, “Nothing. I guess – I think I had a dream like this? But it was different, there were...” at which point he trails off, still frowning.

Bette looks at that haunted expression, reading something more into it than either Harrison or Caitlin do, because she insists on going after Barry as close-range backup. She cites a handful of examples, saying that as a soldier, several times that gut instinct of something amiss has saved lives. But she pauses, looks at Caitlin, and smiles wryly as she says, “Would you be willing to drive, Dr. Snow?” She wiggles her fingers as an illustration, then continues, “Not sure I can do it without blowing up the steering wheel.” 

Without hesitation, Caitlin agrees. The pair head out, side by side, and Harrison takes a moment to wonder about the development of this friendship. Only time will tell if it will be of benefit or detriment, and he is unsure of Bette’s place in his plans for the future. The other metahumans locked in the pipeline each have purpose, if needed, but they are easily controlled, locked away until they are needed. Bette is an anomaly, and will continue to be so for as long as she walks free.

Over the course of the next several minutes, Cisco’s shoulders carry a weight, a tension. When the alarm for the second train crash sounds, the young man jerks as if burned. His eyes widen, and it is only because Harrison is sitting so close by that he hears the near inaudible statement, “–there were _two_ –”

It is this statement that catches Harrison’s interest. He has theories, of course, but until more concrete evidence is presented, he can do nothing but wait – 

There is a series of angry beeps on Barry’s monitor, which brings Harrison back to the present. He is alone in the infirmary with Barry. Joe West left earlier, having extracted a promise for updates sent to his phone hourly; it is likely he would have stayed by Barry’s bedside for the rest of the night, but the cleanup of two train wrecks has every civil servant on call. Three reported deaths, over sixty injuries, and the near-total destruction of two complete trains that need to be cleared off the tracks before the morning rush hour – it will be a busy night for the good detective.

With Barry stable, all there is to be done is the waiting. Caitlin and Cisco are currently working together in the cortex, trying to locate where Eiling has taken Bette, though they’ve had no luck with their search so far. Harrison will give it perhaps another hour before he stops them, sending them home for a few hours of rest. Really, he should have pushed the issue hours ago, but he understands they are fighting the only way currently available to them. Right now, they need to feel – useful.

It isn’t as though their work has been completely fruitless. One of the first things Cisco managed to track down was video footage of Snart’s attack on Barry at the second train, followed by Bette’s timely intervention. It’s quite interesting to see that the young soldier isn’t affected by Snart’s coldgun – likely because her physiology is now primarily composed of nitrogen, an element with a freezing temperature of negative two-hundred.

However, it is in watching Bette and Eiling face off that Harrison’s true interest is caught.

Just before General Eiling squeezes the trigger of his gun, a bullet from somewhere off screen impacts the man in the shoulder. It causes him to jerk in automatic response, a combination of pain and the force of the impact. It doesn’t prevent Eiling from taking his shot – something which happens at almost the exact instant the bullet hits his shoulder – but it does affect his aim. Instead of shooting Bette in the chest, which appears to be Eiling’s original intent, the bullet hits her in the shoulder.

What is most interesting about this development? This is the _same_ shoulder where Snart’s coldgun hit her earlier. Harrison doesn’t know if this is simply luck or the end goal, because that area, while outwardly unaffected, is clearly still cold. In the footage, Eiling’s is loosing far more blood than Bette. It’s most curious. 

Because the man known as Harrison Wells is almost positive that their mystery shooter has struck again. The question that must be asked is – why?

Both Eiling and Bette hit the ground simultaneously, and in the chaos that follows, the surrounding soldiers manage to load the wounded pair into a nearby army truck. The army entourage pulls away, retreating to Eiling’s temporary and unknown base of operation. Snart makes his escape unimpeded, slipping away with a single, thoughtful glance over his shoulder. And finally, Barry lays unconscious, hidden from sight until Caitlin picks her way through the rubble to his rescue.

Later, Harrison knows, in the aftermath of having saved Barry’s life, Caitlin will find her way to a chair in the corner of the room. Her legs will give out from under her and she will fold into herself, falling apart as she recounts the experience to Cisco. She will admit to having witnessed the entire scene. Her face will be white, pinched, and her hands will tremble as she remembers how she was _terrified_. Terrified, watching Bette risks her life for Barry. Terrified of the explosions and the gunshots and the complete and utter chaos of men and women screaming. Terrified and so very helpless to do anything as Eiling’s men take Bette prisoner.

It’s rather aggravating, because Harrison knows that Caitlin will likely beat herself up over this until Bette Sans Souci is either rescued or dead. And if Bette dies in the General’s custody, Caitlin will blame herself for years to come. Honestly, he must physically repress the urge to smack the good doctor once, solidly across the cheek. She is student of medicine, with no combat training or special metapower to rely on. It’s ridiculous to think that she could have made a difference in the fight, and the course of action she took was the most logical.

By staying in the car, out of sight, Caitlin didn’t give General Eiling a hostage to use against Bette. By waiting until both Eiling’s men and Snart were gone, she’d protected Barry’s connection to S.T.A.R. Labs. And if she hadn’t been there, there is no telling if Barry would have made it back to the lab in time. And yet, despite knowing this, Caitlin is clearly weighed down by feelings of failure, inadequacy, and guilt.

Emotions. Harrison sneers, knowing that no one is around to see the expression. It is the ultimate downfall of the human race, that cold, faithful logic is waylaid by the tugging of the tender heart.

Another series of beeps on the monitors catches his attention, and he moves his wheelchair forward as Barry lets out a soft, pained sound. This man – young and stubborn. Before Barry can try and sit up, Harrison says, “You are in S.T.A.R. Labs. You are safe, but you are injured. Moving right now would be a very – poor decision.”

“You – don’t say–” Barry groans. One of his hands comes up to cover the black frostbite on his chest, and as his fingers make contact with the still-healing skin, he hisses sharply.

Harrison allows Barry a moment to orient himself, then asks, “I realize this is a ridiculous question to ask, but I’ve been told it’s only polite. How are you feeling?”

Barry lets out a tiny wheeze. A laugh, perhaps? “Kind of – like six guys – stomped on my chest–” comes the halting reply. Then, abruptly, “Bette?”

“Eiling’s men took her,” Harrison says. “Cisco and Caitlin are working together, seeing if we can locate the General’s base. So far, they haven’t had much luck.”

The expression on Barry’s face is distraught. “She – saved me. Have to – to save her–”

“You have to heal,” Harrison replies, in a voice that brokers no argument. “In your current state, you can’t even walk, much less break into what will undoubtedly be a highly guarded, secure facility.”

Barrry looks as though he might be willing to try it anyway, struggling up to a sitting position, and Harrison feels something inside of himself – snap.

“Do you know how many times you have nearly died in this last month?” Harrison asks, voice deceptively mild. 

The young man blinks at the apparent change of subject, then shakes his head.

“Four. Do you know how many times you _would_ have died, if your cells didn’t regenerate at the speeds they do?”

Barry nibbles his lower lip, then shakes his head again.

“Nearly a dozen. I do not argue with you when you choose to play the hero. I do not fight with you when you risk your life, repeatedly, throwing yourself into burning buildings, making a target of yourself for men with guns.” Harrison finds his voice is rising, and more horrifying, he finds he is powerless to stop it. His control is, quite honestly, shot. “You value your life less than the lives of _every single person_ in this city, and you do not seem to care that there are people who disagree with that sentiment.”

“People die, every day. I do not _care_. But you? I did not dump a small fortune into stabilizing you and saving your life so that you could squander it at the first opportunity. It isn’t a question of money or debt. _Your_ life matters to me, so stop being so goddamned _careless_ with it!”

Harrison breathes out. His throat feels sore and he realizes that he’s been yelling. He swallows once, relaxing his hands from the fists he doesn’t even remember clenching. Barry is staring at him from the infirmary bed, eyes round, completely stunned. He doesn’t know what the young man sees in his face, but he feels – raw. This sort of honestly leaves him empty and he despises it.

Harrison turns his wheelchair toward the doorway, intent on making his exit quickly. Still, he can’t help but make his final point, because after the speech he’s just given, it seems a shame to waste the impact.

“I know you want to save everyone,” Harrison says quietly. “But you can’t save anyone if you’re dead.”

Barry says nothing, but the young man has stopped trying to climb out of the bed despite his obviously debilitating injuries, so Harrison will take this as a win.

***

As Leonard Snart stares at his computer screen, he feels the blood drain from his face.

Despite the initial failure, he’d been hopeful that his fishing would at least net him the Streak’s lair this night. None of the men who had been hired to keep look out had reported any blurs of red, but Len still collected the video cameras he’d set up earlier, intent on scanning the footage, just in case. It is in one such scan that he spots Detective West in the passenger seat of an unknown woman’s vehicle. Keeping an eye on the car and seeing it pull into S.T.A.R. Labs, Len had been ready to dismiss it from his mind. 

Except that West darts out of the car before the woman even finishes parking, throwing open the back door, and yanking a very familiar, red-clad body from the backseat. In the footage, West slings the impossible man over a shoulder and he and the woman run through one of the rear entrances to the laboratories, like the hounds of hell on are snapping at their heels.

Barry – defenseless, unprotected, comatose – is at S.T.A.R. Labs.

And this is where the feelings of helpless dread, of undefined fear, of inexplicable terror begins to pool in Len’s gut. There is a connection between the impossible man and Barry Allen; one is the killer, the other is the son of the victim. There is a connection between Barry Allen and S.T.A.R. Labs; this is the institute that is trying to heal Barry.

But this third connection? The connection between the man in red and S.T.A.R. Labs? This puts a darker, far more sinister spin on events. S.T.A.R. Labs serves as a base of operation for the Streak. And while it is true that S.T.A.R. Labs is currently playing the benevolent benefactor for Barry – oh, this nasty, little twist – how could Len have ever forgotten that S.T.A.R. Labs is directly responsible for putting Barry in a coma in the first place.

Fuck. Len frowns, glaring at the innocuous building on the screen of his computer. Fuck, he’s missing something. There is something more going on here, some sort of grand, sweeping conspiracy. He isn’t going to stop until he knows the truth; Barry deserves that much. But Len is finding these pieces fit together in unexpected ways, and the shape they are taking is – 

“S.T.A.R. Labs, huh?” Mick Rory comments, offhanded and uncaring as he looks over Len’s shoulder. He has raided Len’s mini-fridge without asking and is currently nursing a cold beer in one hand. The other holds a zippo lighter, which he flicks to life, then closes shut in smooth repetition. “S’what I figured.”

Len spares his – partner? – a brief glance. “Explain.”

“Your gun,” Mick says, as if what he’s trying to say is self-explanatory. At Len’s raises brow, he rolls his eyes and elaborates, “Speed is heat. To stop speed, you make it cold. Someone at that fancy lab knows about the Streak, enough to make a weapon to stop him.” He takes a swig of his beer, then lets out a respectable belch.

Len blinks. “And you didn’t think to mention this before?”

Mick shrugs. “S’pretty obvious.” He pockets his lighter, then digs a finger into the cavity of his nose, itching idly. “Oh. Right. Forgot to say, before you blow up anything else, call your sis.”

The statement catches Len completely off-guard, but he controls his expression well. His voice is flat as he replies, “What.”

“Lisa. Your sis,” Mick repeats, flicking a bit of snot off his finger. “She has my number. Sometimes she bitches.” He takes another sip of his beer and turns away, apparently having lost interest in the conversation.

Leonard Snart’s eyes narrow as he stares after Mick’s retreating back. Truthfully, he hasn’t thought much about Lisa in the last few weeks. Still, Mick has a point about S.T.A.R. Labs, and his idiot-savant moments of genius tend to come in pairs. Maybe he will give Lisa a call. If nothing else, she’s far superior to the cannon fodder he’s been hiring recently. Also, she’s better in the kitchen then Len, and it’d be nice to have some help keeping Mick away from the stove.

Len shuts hit computer down, pushing away from the table as he pulls out his cell phone to make a few calls. He doesn’t think to look in his inbox, at the status reports that have been piling up for the last week. He doesn’t care to click on those reports, to read the cold, impersonal repetitions: Barry Allen. Comatose. Condition stable. No change. 

Right now, he’s doing something. He’s making a difference.

(The things he’s doing, they’re for the right reasons. Leonard Snart does not believe in anything so frivolous as God or praying, but – that has to count for something, doesn’t it?)

***


	26. [1/4] Episode 6: The Silver Spoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovely readers. No Len in this chapter. Sorry! He'll be taking over the next chapter, I think. As always, thank you for reading and the next chapter should be up in another four or five days. Maybe less, depending on my situation with work and my husband.
> 
> Also, I plan on going back and doing some minor revisions to chapters 11-25 tonight. Thank the lovely BetaStar, since she busted her buns and went through this entire story in the course of like, a week. Insanity!

***

“Hey, Baer, can I ask you something?” Cisco’s voice floats down the hallway to where the man known as Harrison Wells is – walking implies the use of one’s legs, so what is the proper term? Driving? Rolling? Wheeling?

Regardless, Harrison is on his way to the lab where Caitlin has asked him to go over some biological specs for their metaprisoners. While Cisco’s shackle for Kyle Nimbus has been a rousing success in controlling the man’s abilities, the young engineer hasn’t been able to come up with an effective suppressant for Clyde Mardon. Caitlin, on the other hand, is quite hopeful and has been experimenting with several medical solutions. Though none of them have worked as of yet, the science behind them is sound, and so she has asked Harrison to double-check her numbers.

“Ask me something,” Barry echoes, voice low and – angry?

 _How curious_ , Harrison thinks, because while Barry has been slightly morose as of this last week, the young man is usually very careful to not let his anger show through. Either the constant suppression of his emotions has worn him down, or he is learning to put more trust in Cisco. Perhaps both. 

Barry continues, “Let me see if I can guess. Do you want to ask me about Iris, maybe? About how she’s writing a blog about the Streak – and have I mentioned how much I hate that name, by the way?” 

“No, but it is a crap name,” Cisco slowly agrees. He sounds – perplexed. “And, dude, I know she’s writing a blog about you. I totally follow it. Why are you so upset?”

“Maybe,” Barry replies harshly, “because when Joe asked her about how serious she was, posting an anonymous blog, she responded by putting her _name_ on it, and now every bad guy in the city is going to think she knows more than she really does?” The volume of Barry’s voice increases marginally with every word.

“Seriously?” Cisco says faintly. “Well, that’s–”

“–not what you were going to ask?” Barry voice, sharp and angry, cuts off Cisco’s reply. “Okay, does it have to do with the part where I’m fighting metahumans every week, which is great except for, y’know, I don’t actually know _how_ to fight, so I get my ass handed to me every time?”

There is no pretending Harrison isn’t eavesdropping at this point. It isn’t dignified, but when manipulation is one’s _modus operandi_ , it generally pays to be as well informed as possible. It is for this reason he has so many cameras and microphones gathering countless hours of data across Central City. Granted, Gideon is incredibly useful in sorting through the sheer and overwhelming volume, but she can only narrow down his search so much; in the end, for maximum effect, he is the one who must find the time to watch files that she flags and sets aside for him.

Needless to say, when the opportunity presents itself to eavesdrop in person, he usually makes a point of taking it.

In the other room, Barry continues, “Oh, and the one metahuman who wasn’t hell-bent on hurting other people? Who might have actually helped us? She got captured by a psychotic army general and we can’t find her.”

“We’ll find her,” Cisco replies. There is a slight hitch to his voice. He sounds as if he wants to believe his own words, but can’t quite find the faith needed to do so.

“The only reason she was in that situation in the first place is because she came to save my sorry ass,” Barry says, voice laden with poorly concealed guilt. There is a pause, then he sighs heavily. “We’ve been looking for a solid week. We haven’t found a single lead, Cisco. Not _one_.”

Harrison parks his wheelchair as unobtrusively as possible, just outside the doorway to the lab where Cisco and Barry are working. It takes him a moment, but he recalls an offhand comment from earlier, where Barry volunteers his skills to Cisco, in the hopes that a second set of eyes might be helpful in coding the program they are using to scan for any trace of Bette Sans Souci. 

“We’ll find her,” Cisco repeats. His voice comes out a little stronger, tapping into some internal reservoir of belief, that the good guys will always win, that in the end, everything will work out for the best. “But about my question–”

“What?” Barry interrupts again, somewhat rudely. “You want to know about something else? About Len – I mean.” There is a strange, weird little bark of laughter, hollow and empty. “I mean - about Cold.”

Cisco says, “So totally not where I was going, but yeah, since you mentioned it – dude, what is up with you and that guy?”

There is a moment of silence, then Barry repeats, “Me. And that guy.”

“Yeah.” Cisco makes a little hum of agreement, then says, “I mean, I’ve looked through the records. Snart’s a career thief, has been for years. A few suspected murders, but nothing that would hold up in court. He’s careful, meticulous. I mean, this is a guy who gets off on making perfect plans and outsmarting the police.”

Barry does not reply. Harrison makes a note to look at the security camera footage later, curious as to what expression is twisting the young man’s face. Is he biting his lip, teeth tugging the soft flesh, fierce and nervous? Is there heat rising in his face, an embarrassed flush of shame? Is his gaze downcast, his bright, blue eyes unable to meet Cisco’s gaze as his ex-lover’s many faults are detailed? Are there tears there, glimmering just beneath the surface, held back by nothing but the young man’s raw, jagged will?

The man known as Harrison Wells is torn. He can visualize these expressions on Barry’s face so clearly, a tantalizing picture of silent shame. It’s a very pretty image – lips swollen pink from being bitten, red staining pale cheeks, eyes lowered and submissive, lashes spiked with tears. But in thinking about Barry’s expression, he must also acknowledge that Leonard Snart is the one who put it there. That certainly cools – ugh – any heat that is pooling in Harrison’s gut.

“So why is it,” Cisco continues blithely, oblivious to the internal conflict Harrison can sense in Barry’s silence even from separate rooms, “that Cold is hunting you with such ruthless, single-minded intensity? I mean, what the hell? Because the dude hates you. Like, _hates_ you. Fire and brimstone, or I guess in his case, blizzards and ice.”

Another moment of silence, then Barry says quietly, “Would you believe me if I told you he’s my ex-boyfriend?”

Cisco laughs. “Yeah, okay.” Then he adds, “Seriously, dude, did you like, kill his husky puppy when I wasn’t looking or something?”

“I’m not joking,” Barry says, and something in the tone of his voice must alert Cisco to the gravity of this conversation because the young engineer stops laughing abruptly. Barry continues, “Leonard Snart – Len – is my ex. Me, like – Barry Allen me, not the Streak, me. He and I were together, on and off, for about two years.”

“No way,” Cisco breathes. “Dude, you – I mean, that’s–” A pause, a paradigm shift, the moment when Cisco assimilates this information into his worldview. “What happened?”

“Got struck by lightning,” Barry says. “Kind of hard to date someone in a coma, I guess. And I – I didn’t know. About him being a thief. He lied about that – about a lot of things – when we were together.”

“Seriously?” Cisco says. “Like, _holy shit_. So – he knows you’re the Streak and he’s–” The sentence cuts off abruptly, likely responding to some visual cue that Harrison can’t see. “He doesn’t know you’re the Streak? Then why the hell is he hunting you? Streak-you, I mean, not you-you.”

“I told him about my mother’s death,” Barry replies. “I told him that an impossible man in the lightning killed her, and – well, you’ve seen how it looks when I run.”

“ _Holy shit_ ,” Cisco repeats reverently. “So, let me see if I have this straight. Captain Cold is your ex-boyfriend, only he doesn’t know that you’re the Streak–”

“–I hate that name–” Barry mutters.

“–and having seen your abilities in action, he deduced that you’re the impossible man in the lightning who killed Nora Allen nearly fifteen years ago–”

“–vibrating my face and voice makes it impossible to peg my age,” Barry acknowledges the unspoken question. 

“–so Cold is trying to avenge your mother’s death because he thinks _you_ killed her? Only you didn’t kill her, obviously, and he doesn’t know that you’re – um – you-you.” Cisco lets out a shaky breath, a pronounced whoosh that lingers in the air for a moment, then says, “What the actual fuck, dude. How is this your life?”

“You left out the part where besides being a criminal, he’s apparently also a sociopath,” Barry adds, his voice only a little unsteady. “Because he’s perfectly willing to kill whoever stands in his way. Or did you miss the fact that he derailed _two_ trains just to catch me off guard?”

“The whole situation is so fucked up, I can’t even begin to process it right now,” Cisco admits readily. “What I don’t get is – why? I mean, yeah, okay, hunting your mother’s murderer, I kind of understand that. But like, what’s his endgame? He kills Streak-you and drops the body off at you-you’s door like a street cat leaving a present?” A pause, then, “Roses and chocolate would go over way better.”

“I honestly don’t know why,” Barry replies. “He never – I mean, it’s been over a month since I woke up from the coma. He’s never tried to contact me or anything, and he uses burner phones, so I can’t call him because I don’t have his new number.” Barry laughs, that weird, wobbly little sound, and continues, “Also? He’s sort of actively trying to kill my alterego. That’s – um – that’s not the kind of problem with an easy resolution.”

“Well,” Cisco says candidly, “sure, yeah. But also, Dr. Wells.”

“What?” Barry squeaks. 

Harrison’s eyes narrow into slits. What indeed.

“Dr. Wells,” Cisco repeats. “You two have been dancing around each other for weeks. Me and Caitlin have this whole predictive flowchart with who’s going to make the first move and everything.”

“We don’t – I mean –” Barry clears his throat. Harrison is willing to bet a year in this century that the young man is a brilliant shade of red. “Is it–? I guess it’s pretty – um – obvious?”

“Oh yeah,” Cisco says blithely. “Kind of hard to miss.” There is a pause, then, “Wait, does Dr. Wells know about Cold?”

“Yeah. He – um – he gave me advice. When I found out about Len, I was–” Barry swallows audibly. “It was a bad day.”

Cisco makes a sympathetic sound. “Dude, you are the king of understatement. I can’t even _imagine_ how fucked up I’d be feeling in your shoes. Also? Can I ask you something? Like, the something I’ve been trying to ask you since we started this conversation?”

“You mean we didn’t cover it already?” Barry replies. “In all of that word-vomit, what did I miss?”

“Dude,” Cisco says, and there is the sound of plastic crinkling, “I just wanted to know if you were hungry. I created a new set of flavor variations for your Barry Bars and I wanted your opinion.”

Barry laughs. The sound is lighter, a weight lifted. “Seriously?” he asks.

Harrison can hear the grin in Cisco’s voice as he replies, “Seriously.”

***

A day passes without incident. It is not a record, but since the day Barry first woke up, it is certainly close. The man known as Harrison Wells contemplates suggesting to Caitlin the notion of a scoreboard; a not-so-subtle reminder to Barry that he must take care of himself. It has been how many days since the last work-related injury?

“Check the math,” Cisco says, walking beside Caitlin a few steps ahead of where Harrison has just turned a corner.

“Your dispersal models don't correlate,” Caitlin replies, waving a dismissive hand, a delicate motion that catches Harrison’s eye. It takes him a moment to place what is different; Caitlin has removed her engagement ring. It seems as though she is trying to finally move on from Ronnie Raymond’s death. Harrison makes a mental note to keep an eye on any future dating activities; there is a certain danger involved if she decides to see someone seriously.

“Um, they do if you factor in the seasonal fluctuations in reproduction cycles,” Cisco responds, a bite of sarcasm to his tone. 

“What exactly are we debating?” Harrison asks curiously, directing his wheelchair to place him by Caitlin’s side as they continue down the hallway.

Cisco’s eyes slide over to him, a hint of defiance, a touch of chagrin. He elaborates, “The average number of bugs Barry swallows in a day of running.”

A small smile quirks Harrison’s lips. “I look forward to seeing you accept your Nobel,” he says dryly.

As the three of them move through the doorway to the cortex, Harrison catches sight of Barry, sprawled on his side in the middle of the room.

“Oh, God,” Caitlin says. She hurries to Barry’s side, knees hitting the floor as she reaches out steady hands, touching two fingers to the young man’s neck as she searches for a pulse. Clearly she finds one, because she proceeds to check him over for other injuries with brisk efficiency, even as she calls out, “Barry? Barry, can you hear me?”

Cisco makes an aborted move forward, thinks better of it, then dashes off toward the infirmary. He yells over his shoulder, “I’ll get the gurney!”

Harrison, trapped by the confines of his ruse with the wheelchair, does nothing. His eyes follow Caitlin’s hands, quickly deducing Barry’s injuries as best he can through a visual examination. There is dried blood crusting the corner of Barry’s mouth, a streak staining the young man’s skin from lower lip to chin. The skin in that area is faintly discolored, a bruise implying that the injury came from blunt impact. There is no other blood that he can see, though with the red of Barry’s uniform, it is difficult to say for certain.

The most troubling injury appears to be Barry’s hand. Several of the young man’s fingers are twisted at uncomfortable angles, and the way he loosely cradles it to his chest, protective, is indicative of pain. As intimately as he is acquainted with Barry’s healing factor, Harrison knows that to reach that level of agony takes a very specific kind of injury. Perhaps there are broken ribs to contend with, in addition to whatever has been done to his hand.

Barry awakes perhaps twenty minutes into Caitlin’s tender care, though he remains quiet. As the good doctor works, Harrison notes that Barry’s eyes sometimes stray to where Harrison himself sits to the side, as unobtrusively as possible. There is something in the young man’s expression that is difficult to place – is that a touch of embarrassment? A hint of regret?

Caitlin puts the finishing touches on an intricate hand brace, commenting, “Thirteen fractures. That’s a new record, and that’s just in your hand. You also have a concussion, three cracked ribs, and a bruised spleen.” She fixes Barry with a stern look. “You know the drill. Even with your powers, you’ll need a few hours to heal.”

Unable to contain his curiosity, his mind racing with possibilities, Harrison asks, “What, exactly, did you hit?”

“A man,” Barry replies sullenly. “A big, bad man.” Blue eyes flutter shut, and Barry seems to sag back against the infirmary’s bed. He looks small, pale against the stark, white sheets. “His skin changed when I hit him,” he explains quietly. “Like, he turned to metal.”

“Interesting,” Harrison muses. “A – man of steel.” As a time traveler, the irony of the statement is not lost on him. Superman’s moniker is well-known, even a hundred years in the future. He gets a small, admittedly childish thrill, voicing that phrase in description of a criminal.

“So you went after a metahuman _alone_?” Cisco asks suddenly, instantly incensed. “Dude, why didn’t you call us?” 

Ah. The reason for Cisco’s anger becomes clear. This team is something that the young engineer has grown to love fiercely in the short time since its inception. Being a part of it gives Cisco the feeling of something greater than himself. Knowing that his actions make a difference, and that he can protect Barry from a supporting role gives Cisco life. And in denying that protection, in denying Cisco by not calling, Barry has hurt the young engineer’s feelings.

Hurt feelings. Emotions. The man known as Harrison Wells has gone through these mental cues before. He understands them in the same breath that he despises them.

“I didn’t know,” Barry replies, the unspoken apology in his voice. Cisco’s shoulders lose some of their tension, and Barry continues, “I really didn’t know that he was a metahuman. I just – I saw the car chase and though I could help the police. I didn’t.” Here he stutters, gaze dropping to the bed sheets as he picks a bit of nonexistent lint from them with his uninjured hand. “I didn’t think,” he admits quietly.

Cisco is instantly contrite, stepping forward next to Caitlin to lay an understanding hand on Barry’s shoulder. It is a slow, gentle movement, so as not to upset any of Barry’s injuries.

“It’s okay, dude,” Cisco says. “I’m sorry. I just worry about you, and every time you come back hurt, I can’t help but wonder if I was on the coms with you, maybe you wouldn’t come back _as_ hurt.”

Barry reaches up at a clearly uncomfortable angle to awkwardly pat Cisco’s hand.

Cisco takes a step back, clears his throat, and says, “You’re – um – lucky he didn’t knock out your teeth. Those puppies don’t grow back.”

“Probably,” Caitlin pipes up. “They _probably_ don’t grow back.” There is a slightly manic light in her eyes, as if the temptation to find out – for science – is a siren’s call too strong for her to resist.

Barry leans his head back, looking up at the ceiling. He says, “It’s the strangest thing. I feel like I know the guy from somewhere.”

Harrison makes a mental note to see if Gideon can’t hunt down video footage of tonight’s altercation. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“He said something that was familiar,” Barry admits easily. “I just. I can’t place it. But we have to figure out a way to stop him, or he’s going to hurt someone else. Tonight was a stolen vehicle and some petty cash theft, but with powers like that, he can do a _lot_ more damage.”

“How do you fight a guy that’s made of steel?” Cisco asks, tilting his head to one side as he ponders the question.

“I’m sure we’ll come up with something,” Harrison says. “Tonight, you heal.”

Cisco and Caitlin share a look, tiny, twin mischievous grins. They make their excuses simultaneously, not quite drowning each other out as Cisco says, “Dude, I’m off to the cortex. I want to crunch some numbers on that program to find Bette.”

“I’ll be in the lab,” Caitlin says at the same time. “I’m very close to a breakthrough on containing Mr. Mardon’s abilities.”

“Um. Okay?” Barry says, brow furrowing.

Harrison’s eyes narrow, following the pair as they make a hasty retreat from the infirmary. They are so painfully unsubtle in their manipulations. _Predictive flow chart_ , he mentally huffs. _Honestly_.

“I’m sorry,” Barry says abruptly into the silence.

“Excuse me?” Harrison focuses his gaze back to where the young man reclines. The flush of embarrassment, of shame, that Harrison noted earlier is back in full-force, clearly creeping up Barry’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Barry repeats. He does not meet Harrison’s gaze as he speaks, eyes darting around the infirmary for something else to focus on. “I didn’t. I mean. I’m trying – to be more careful. I didn’t know he was a metahuman.”

“Ah,” Harrison says softly. The reason for Barry’s expression becomes clear to him. Since Harrison’s unplanned blowup in this very infirmary last week, in retrospect, it becomes clear that Barry is being more careful. He is taking fewer unplanned risks. He is stopping to think instead of blindly reacting. 

And now, Barry has been landed in a hospital bed. To add insult to injury, it is by the hand of someone who should have been an uninteresting footnote in this chapter of the young man’s life.

“I know you’ve been trying,” Harrison says, moving his wheelchair, parking it in his spot by Barry’s bed. “I’m not angry with you for these injuries.”

Barry glances at him, nibbles his lip. “You’re not?”

“No,” Harrison replies. “You were in good condition when you were here for Caitlin’s physical earlier today. You weren’t putting yourself in needless danger or engaging with someone who we had registered as a metahuman threat. You were stopping a car thief, and when you found you were in over your head, you had enough presence of mind to retreat.” Harrison smiles, a small, tight thing, then adds, “Granted, I would like you to get in the habit of alerting one of us when you’re in need of assistance. I believe you were on that floor for a good twenty minutes before we found you.”

“I didn’t think,” Barry admits readily. “I’m – um. I’m trying, Harrison. I tried to think, what if it was Cisco or Caitlin – or you–” Finally, Barry meets his gaze squarely, and Harrison is hit by a near-physical wave of intense affection. Barry looks at him and it’s so horribly obvious that the young man _cares_ about Harrison, which should please him, because it makes everything so much easier. Instead Harrison finds himself horrified because he is going to hurt Barry. His actions are going to hurt Barry so very, very badly, and fuck. For some reason, that doesn’t make him happy at all.

“If one of you – any of you – ended up in a hospital bed as often as I do–” Barry shakes his head. “I don’t. I don’t know _what_ I’d do. I want – I mean, I have to help people. But you’re right. If I don’t take care of myself first, I can’t take care of anyone else.”

Still reeling internally, feeling painfully off-balance, Harrison says, “I’m pleased that you’re taking your safety more seriously. Now, I have a project that requires my attention and–”

“Stay?”

Harrison meets Barry’s eyes. There is vulnerability there, earnestness and hope.

“Please, stay?” Barry asks again. “Just. Until I fall asleep?” The young man reaches out his uninjured hand, an imploring gesture of faith. Of trust.

There is a moment of silence. Of stillness. 

Harrison takes Barry’s hand. The lightning arcs between them, a faint, muted tingle. Barry smiles, lopsided and sweet.

From the quiet corner of his mind where Eobard Thawne is always watching, there is a hiss – _danger, danger, danger_.

Harrison stays.

***


	27. [2/4] Episode 6: The Cat and the Fiddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readers! So, it's like, 3 am, and I need to get ready for work in the next thirty minutes. I will be replying to as many comments from the previous chapter as I can before I leave, but if I don't get to you before I have to go, I will get to you when I get home later today!
> 
> As always, thank you for your amazing comments because they mean the world to me, and thank you for the kudos because _holy shit_ , this story is on the first page for Flash-fics when you search by kudos. Again - _HOLY SHIT_. *dies*

***

All things considered, Leonard Snart is having a pretty decent day.

Sitting in his hotel room, mapping out the foundation for his future plans, he’s actually feeling pretty good. In his head, he moves through a mental checklist of what’s working in his favor, ticking off the points as he hits them one-by-one: conclusive evidence that S.T.A.R. Labs is the Streak’s lair, followed by three individual names – who they are, and what avenues he can use to exploit them – and last, a new lead on an impossible human. 

Impossible human – hm. Len needs a better name for them. Impossible human is bulky, inelegant. A corner of his mind focuses solely on this, even as his eyes scan the screen of his laptop and his fingers tap a strong, emphatic beat atop the three folders on his desk. This most recent batch of recorded video surveillance is invaluable. He’s got a couple of hidden cameras encircling S.T.A.R. Labs perimeter, and he’s been streaming live to his laptop for nearly a week. He’s got hundreds of moments marked, countless blurs heading to and from the building at all hours, day and night. Usually the blur is familiar red, trailing golden lightning with every step. But this time? This time the blur wears regular clothing, and has no mask to speak of.

It isn’t as though it gives Len much to work with, because when looking at the image, frozen on the screen, the only thing Len can deduce is that the man has dark – brown? black? – hair. It appears to be cut short, though it’s possible it’s long and simply tied back. Still, it’s more than Len had before. It’s a step forward.

Leonard Snart is not a man who sneers at any step he takes in the right direction, no matter how small.

There is one thing he’s willing to guarantee after a week of surveillance, though. With the amount of time the Streak spends in S.T.A.R. Labs, there is no doubt he uses the shell of this company as his base of operation. And with that confirmation, a new series of doors open because following that train of thought, the people who are still employed there must be aware of the impossible man’s presence. In fact, Len will bet his not-inconsiderable fortune, squirreled away in dummy bank accounts across the country, that at least one knows the Streak’s true identify.

Len stops his fingers from restlessly tapping and eyes the three folders, contemplating. His lips purse and he lets out a small sigh. Discounting the general maintenance staff and security – which, in future, may be the easiest way to gain access to the building – there are three names of interest connected to S.T.A.R. Labs: Harrison Wells, Cisco Ramon, and Caitlin Snow. The thin dossiers on his desk contain general background information, addresses and contact information, as well as pertinent surveillance photos and hacked police reports.

Harrison Wells is the only name Len is originally familiar with, though he’s made it a point to memorize the other two files completely. Despite the many years that Wells has stood in the limelight, there is very little concrete information available on him. No family still living, no friends to speak of. Len even read through his overpriced biography in an attempt to glean something – anything – of value, and the most he could figure is that apparently Harrison Wells likes giving big speeches with minimal substance, at least when it comes to his private life.

There are a handful of misdemeanors recorded in the man’s youth, nothing serious, high school and college pranks mostly. There is an old police report from Starling City, detailing a car crash involving Wells and his wife, nearly fifteen years prior. The car had taken a bad bump on the road, and a tire exploded. Crap luck, really. The wife died on the scene, though Wells had survived with a concussion and a few cracked ribs. 

And after that? Nothing. Moving forward, the only documentation Len finds are the countless scientific publications authored by Wells. If Len had to guess, he’d say that after the death of Wells’ wife, the man had buried himself in his work and never come back up for air. As far as coping mechanisms go, it’s pretty straightforward.

From the ashes of his personal tragedy, Harrison Wells had pulled himself up and created something scientifically amazing. Then that shit had blown up in his face, leaving his company in ruins, and his body a crippled wreck in a wheelchair. Really, Len supposes he should drudge up a bit of sympathy for the guy. Maybe.

Eh, maybe not. Though the man hadn’t intended for his machine to explode, his actions are directly responsible for Barry being in a coma. His company and the use of his legs are the least he can pay in penance, as far as Len is concerned. 

Still, it’s strange to think that a man Len has spent months hating is now a man he has leave to hunt. Harrison Wells, so very infamous in this city, even ten months after the explosion of the particle accelerator. He presents a unique opportunity, because there are so many people – normal people – in this city who hate him, who want to see him suffer for the hurt that he has caused. If Wells disappears – and Len is careful – the police will be hard pressed to narrow down who took him.

The guy’s house is fairly opulent, and it’s located in one of the nicer neighborhoods; it might potentially make a good cover for a robbery gone wrong. Wells keeps the fact that he lives there as quiet as he possibly can, likely to deter anyone who might be looking for payback because of his exploding machine. Len takes note of the fact that Wells has a driver on-call who transports him and his wheelchair to and from work on a daily basis, and looks up the name of the company said driver is hired through: Paratrans-Plus.

Moving down the line, the other two files Len has memorized belong to Cisco Ramon and Caitlin Snow. Neither of them look like bad people on paper, and Len is willing to suspend the instant spike of irrational rage he feels when he thinks about these two working with the Streak. 

Maybe they don’t know. Maybe they’re unaware of the man’s connection to Nora Allen’s death. Maybe they’re innocent in all of this.

But maybe not. Len needs to meet them in person to ascertain the truth for certain. There are very, very few people who can successfully lie to his face, and neither Ramon nor Snow look like they’re particularly capable of guile. Wells? Wells could probably give it a good go, if only because Len’s of the opinion that every word out of his mouth is a lie. And yeah, maybe that’s a bit of personal bias shining through, but whatever.

Cisco Ramon is a mechanical engineer from an impoverished background. Both of his parents are alive, and he’s got a brother named Dante. Excellent pressure points, as far as Len is concerned. The kid’s juvenile record is squeaky clean, and there is nothing in his history that seems the least bit incriminating. 

Except for the fact that he’s an engineer, and Len has a couple of super high-tech weapons that were stolen from S.T.A.R. Labs. Weapons he’s willing to bet were designed by Ramon’s clever little fingers. It’s crossed Len’s mind that maybe he might be able to find an ally in this guy, because those weapons were designed for a reason. If Ramon is afraid of the Streak – if he made the coldgun, as Mick suggests, specifically to _stop_ the Streak – than perhaps some sort of mutually beneficial agreement can be reached.

And if not, there’s always Plan B. From his observations over the last week, it isn’t as though Ramon’s family is under any sort of surveillance or protection. As a failsafe, Len can always kidnap and torture Ramon’s brother in front of him. Between the brothers, Dante is a pianist, and Cisco is an engineer. For both of them, their hands are their livelihood. Break a few fingers – or freeze them off – and someone will talk.

Again, maybe it won’t come to that. But Len likes being prepared, just in case.

Caitlin Snow, on the other hand, is a bio-engineer who also holds a doctorate in medicine. That degree is likely the only reason Joe West was willing to transfer Barry to S.T.A.R. Labs in the first place. Having a doctor on staff – one who has no other patients to be concerned over – is an extremely powerful incentive. Both Snow’s parents and her fiancé are dead, and it seems her only known associates are Harrison Wells and Cisco Ramon. Yet another fine example of someone who has chosen to dedicate their life to their work in the wake of personal tragedy.

Snow’s police record is also clean. There is a brief mention of a restraining order she’d filed during her freshman year of college, an ex-boyfriend who apparently couldn’t take no for an answer. There are also several documented follow-up visits to her dorm room concerning threatening voicemails, unwanted flower deliveries, and a couple of letters that border on stalking. There is no clear resolution, but apparently something must have happened because the reports end abruptly during the beginning of her sophomore year.

Len makes a mental note to look into the ex-boyfriend’s current whereabouts. Though he has no intention of kidnapping the good doctor, as she’s the only one on the premise with documented medical expertise, and Barry is exclusively her patient, that doesn’t mean he can’t put together some blackmail material to pressure her if needed. Maybe he’ll send Mick her way, and see if perhaps she can’t be convinced to stop offering her services to the Streak.

Kidnapping does seem to be the direction Len’s mind is currently leaning, and while Snow is off the table, both Ramon and Wells are prime targets. It’s a toss-up, a quarter in the air.

Len has spent months hating Harrison Wells, and the notion of torturing the arrogant fuck until he talks is pretty damned appealing. Plus Wells is in a wheelchair, and once he’s been captured – while kind of a dick move to pull on a cripple – it’s a pretty solid bet he’s not going to be able to escape. On the other hand, from the videos of the scientist’s public speeches, Wells _is_ extremely intelligent, and it’s possible torture may not work. As the man doesn’t have any friends or family, there are no obvious Plan B’s to exploit.

Cisco Ramon is also intelligent, and he’s less of a man and more of a kid, which makes him easier to manipulate. Plus, if the kid _is_ afraid of the Streak, it’s possible that Len could gain an inside man _and_ tech support all in one go. Also, if the kid isn’t on board with betrayal, there’s always the option of kidnapping and torturing his brother in front of him. Still, hurting a kid doesn’t hold the same appeal, and between the two, Wells is more likely to know the Streak’s real name.

Yeah, it’s a coin toss. Heads or tails. Ramon or Wells.

As far as plans go, it’s a work in progress. As much as he wants to storm the building, guns blazing, Leonard Snart knows that would be tipping his hand prematurely. He’s got time, and he has no intention of rushing this, losing both his cool and his best lead.

Plus, there are other factors to consider as well, like the impossible, explosive woman who’d rescued the Streak before Len had been able to execute his last plan. Since then, he’s had Mick casing the city, keeping an ear to the ground for reports of the strange, the unusual, the downright impossible. It stirs up the faint ache of nostalgia, because Barry – Barry would have loved this part. Finding the impossible so close to home would have made him _glow_ with pleasure, with pride.

Mick doesn’t glow. Mick lights shit on fire.

Still, Len can’t deny his hotheaded partner gets answers.

And those answers? They lead to a whole new set of questions. Because there is a _lot_ of impossible going on in Central City. Combing through old police reports, beating the occasional, uncooperative criminal element until someone starts talking – but when people do, the picture they paint is – disconcerting.

In the last ten months, the impossible has made its home in Central City. Mick tells him someone in a bar mentions seeing a burning, homeless man, and while most of the patrons laugh, Len can’t help but wonder – what if? There is a man who can move at impossible speeds. There is a woman who can make impossible explosions with the touch of her fingers. Why not a man who can burn, an impossible human torch who does not die?

Mick sorts and filters, but ultimately he gives Len a pile of papers to go through, each with claims more ridiculous than the last. There are several police reports about mobs of people who get angry – violently angry – for no apparent reason, and when these feelings fade, something has been stolen. Tied into these reports are a handful of surveillance videos, where a man unaffected by rage – perhaps because he’s the one causing it? – disappears from the scene of the crime, pockets clearly bulging with those stolen goods.

In the ghetto of Central City, there have been several emergency calls, brushed off as men and woman who were too drunk or drugged to believe. They talk about a disappearing girl, who is there one minute only to reappear miles away. Len might have dismissed those reports as well, but there are too many of them – all with the same description, dark hair, pixie build, carrying a fucking single-lens telescope of all things – to be mere coincidence. Len has a couple of men in place, keeping an eye out for her now. That sort of ability, especially if she can use it on other people, or even objects, would be invaluable.

The most recent lead that Mick is out following today, though, is the impossible metal-man. A kid who, by all reports, can change his body into solid metal. There are a few people at bars who’ve offered their complaints to Mick’s less-than-subtle inquiries, about some punk ass bully. This guy, a real piece of work, drinks until he’s got a full tab, hits on every woman in sight regardless of if they have a boyfriend present, and starts bar fights that end in broken hands and shattered wooden stools. He skips out on his tab and a day or two later, ends up at a new bar, pulling the exact same scam.

And okay, Len wouldn’t usually give a shit unless he ran into the guy in person – whereupon he’d probably shoot the douche bag in the head – but those broken hands and shattered stools? Those hands were broken trying to punch the guy in the jaw. Those stools were shattered slamming them over the top of the guy’s skull. And every patron of the bar, of every bar, swears that when those fists and stools made contact with what should have been a soft, tender target, the guy turns to metal. Solid fucking steel.

And that’s got Leonard Snart more than just interested. The idea of it has him _fascinated_.

One guy, particularly angry at the punk, swears he followed the guy out to the Keystone Ironworks’ mines. The mines have been closed for months, which makes them an excellent hideout for someone looking to avoid police detection. Mick’s checking it out now, though he should have been back at least an hour ago, and Len finds himself hoping that this lead pans out.

There is a knock on his hotel door. 

_Fucking finally_ , Len thinks with an uncharacteristic hint of impatience. He stands from his desk, walks over and opens the door.

All things considered, Leonard Snart is having a pretty decent day. And then he gets punched in the face.

***

Caitlin and Cisco are working side-by-side in front of Cisco’s terminal in the cortex. The man known as Harrison Wells is parked some distance away, staring blankly at another computer screen. He has not made any alterations to the data there in the last five minutes. He absently sips his coffee, then places the cup back down by the console.

Lost somewhere between intense self-examination and the warring desire to escape all conscious thought completely, Harrison finds it increasingly difficult to concentrate. Since Barry left the building earlier in the day, his mind has been a wrecked war zone of indiscriminate rage, paralyzing confusion, and the terrible awareness that no matter what he does, from this point forward, he is likely going to find himself facing something he regrets.

The man known as Harrison Wells is not one who regrets easily, but on the few, unfortunate occasions the feelings have been invoked in him, the results have been quite – profound.

Each time Barry Allen’s face comes to mind, Harrison forces himself to picture the Flash’s cowl, synthetic red material stretching to cover the soft, brown hair. Though Barry has not yet learned to channel the Speedforce through his eyes, Harrison pictures those expressive, blue eyes shuttering, stained with electric, golden intensity. His fingers tingle with warmth, having held Barry’s hand for hours after the young man fell asleep, and he clenches his hands into fists and fights the urge to punch the wall.

The man known as Harrison Wells imagines the Flash – the Flash of the future. Nothing has changed. Nothing is forgiven. There is nothing – _nothing_ \- but the deepest, darkest disdain. The history between them is too thick, and it leaves a tainted, bitter taste in his mouth.

And then Harrison thinks of Barry, with his awkward smiles, bright and bold. Barry, who wears his heart on his sleeve and sees the best in the very worst humanity has to offer. Barry, who is not the Flash from the future. Here and now, Barry Allen is _nothing_ like that man.

The man known as Harrison Wells is too involved. This is painfully obvious. The only question he must now entertain is this: what is he going to do about it?

Harrison is saved from having to make a decision because at that moment, Barry speeds into S.T.A.R. Labs. He appears in the middle of the cortex without warning. One moment, Caitlin and Cisco are talking to each other, heads bent together in twin conspiracy, and the next, Barry is there, pacing furiously as if he’d never left that morning. He is muttering incoherently, appearing almost – unhinged.

“Hey, Baer,” Cisco says, straightening himself to a standing position, head tilting to one side in curiosity. “You okay there, buddy?”

“Tony,” Barry replies, as if the name is somehow a valid answer to the question. “Tony _freaking_ Woodward.”

“Um,” Caitlin says cleverly. She shares a glance with Cisco, then looks over imploringly to where Harrison is sitting, pretending to work through a few basic simulations on their metal-skinned metahuman. Harrison shakes his head in response, a single, sharp movement that conveys that he is just as lost as she is. He reaches for his coffee, takes a slow sip.

“Tony Woodward,” Cisco repeats, fingers flying over the keyboard as he searches the system. “He's got a history of violence, petty theft, assault, going way back to juvie. Is he our metahuman?”

“Yeah,” Barry says, still pacing. “Yeah, he’s our guy. Only you know what else he is?”

“Um?” Caitlin says again, echoing her earlier confusion.

“My nemesis,” Barry hisses, and the man known as Harrison Wells chokes on his coffee.

***

Leonard Snart covers his bleeding – possibly broken – nose with one hand, looking up at his attacker. His expression is not amused. “Lisa,” he says, and the words are muffled, nasally, “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Lenny,” his little sister replies cheerfully. She stands with her hands on her hips as she grins down at him. “Heard you been into some serious shit lately. What’s up with that?”

“Fuck you,” Len groans, and she hauls him up by one arm and pulls him into a hug.

***


	28. [3/4] Episode 6: The Selfish Giant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers. Here's the next chapter, and due to a few people having asked for it, I've overcome my irrational anxiety involving social media and created a tumblr under the name "townwithoutheart." Be gentle? I really have no idea how it works or what I'm supposed to do with it, so I imagine all you'll end up with from me is notice of fanfiction updates.

***

“Your childhood nemesis is now an unstoppable metahuman,” Cisco says, a flat expression on his face as he stares at Barry. “That is _seriously_ messed up.”

“I had a childhood nemesis,” Caitlin contributes, lips twisting to a frown as she loses herself in the memory. Her voice is a little grumpy, a little bitter. “Lexi LaRoche,” she continues, nose wrinkling up, full of disdain. “She used to put gum in my hair.”

“Jake Puckett.” Cisco nods sagely. “If I didn’t let him copy my homework, he’d give me a swirly.”

Barry rolls his eyes, “And now that we’ve established that we’re all uber-nerds–”

“Technically,” Cisco interjects slyly, “We’ve only established that a majority of us are uber-nerds.” The young engineer turns his full attention to where Harrison has been sitting, content to observe. “How about it, Dr. Wells? Did you have a nemesis?”

“A childhood nemesis?” Harrison clarifies with a secretive smile. “No.”

Cisco makes a tiny, dissatisfied sound, the hybrid lovechild of a grumble and a groan. “Seriously, Dr. Wells? Not only is your brain sexier than mine, but you didn’t have someone who stuffed you in lockers or pulled down your pants because of it?”

The man known as Harrison Wells offers the young man a slow blink, then quirks his eyebrow.

“What?” Cisco asks, looking first at Harrison, then to Barry who is clearly holding back a laugh, and finally at Caitlin. The young woman wears a perplexed expression as she silently mouths the words: Sexy... brain?

“Hey, if there was a swimsuit competition for incredibly attractive brains, Dr. Wells would _totally_ win,” Cisco defends passionately. “I am a young, hot-blooded, heterosexual man, but if I was given the opportunity, I would make sweet love to that brain all night long without regret.”

There is a heavy pause, wherein certain boundaries are stretched and expanded. Then:

“So,” Barry says, face only slightly red, “What are we going to do about Tony?”

“Glad you asked!” Cisco replies with a grin, his train of thought cleanly switching tracks. He grabs Barry’s elbow, steering him towards one of the smaller engineering labs. “We’re going to train you, man. Karate Kid style!” 

Caitlin and Harrison follow a few paces behind. Caitlin speaks quietly out of the corner of her mouth, and she is clearly struggling to find a delicate way to phrase her question. “Do you think he’s aware of the mental visual that entails, as there is only one entryway close enough to the brain for that sort of – intimacy – to occur?”

“No,” Harrison replies, just as quietly, “And if you don’t forget this conversation ever happened, they will never find the bodies, Dr. Snow.” 

“Behold!” Cisco cries. Then, somewhat pretentiously, “I call him Girder.”

“For the record,” Caitlin adds, “Not my idea.”

Harrison eyes the metal monstrosity, a stir of trepidation in his stomach. The thing is solid, hard lines of steel with compact metal nubs bolting every piece in place. The “head” has no defining features, for which he finds himself rather grateful, and the “arms” are extended forward, hinged at both shoulder and elbow for what Harrison believes is maximum reach.

“Fighting is physics,” Cisco tells Barry, waving his hand at Girder to illustrate his point. “It’s not about strength and it’s not about size. It’s about _energy_.”

Barry nods slowly, “I know. I mean, I do know that. Mass times acceleration equals force. I’ve done the math.” He smiles, sheepish, and rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “I – that’s why I drop out of speeding, when I go to hit someone. Because I’m pretty sure if I didn’t, I’d kill them.”

The man known as Harrison Wells blinks at that, having not been physically present at any of Barry’s altercations with metahumans thus far. He’s reviewed the footage in passing, though, and now that he considers it, he realizes the truth to Barry’s claim. The younger man has never – never – landed a hit while connected to the speedforce. Speed is what gives the Flash his power. That Barry has denied himself that, for any reason, is – unthinkable.

“Or break every bone in your hand. And your wrist. And your arm.” Caitlin pipes up helpfully, “That’s important, too.”

Cisco waves his hand dismissively. “I’m almost ninety percent positive that Barry passively generates some sort of force field around his body when he runs at super speeds. If he’s looking to punch someone at those same speeds, that field should – in theory – protect his bones from breaking.”

Harrison knows for a fact that Cisco is correct in his theory, but feels compelled to caution, “ _If_ he does it properly. An improper punch, even at mundane speeds, is perfectly capable of shattering bones.”

Barry makes a face, and Cisco continues loudly, “The _point_ is, if you channel your speed the right way, you can totally take this bad boy down.” He gestures at the metallic version of Girder, and the implication is clear. Take down this Girder and then, take down the real thing.

“Now,” Cisco says, grabbing an unwieldy metal case from the nearby table and securing it around his neck. The case is – ah. A remote, for the metal monstrosity. “Obviously, your Girder is a moving target. So!”

The young engineer presses a few buttons, rotates one of the joysticks protruding from his remote with careful precision. Girder grinds to life, righting itself and rotating first to the right, then the left. It swings an experimental, metal arm in Barry’s direction.

“I have ice and bandages standing by,” Caitlin says, eyeing the machine with mistrust.

Barry looks at Cisco’s creation and his expression hardens. Apparently the resemblance to Tony Woodward is strong enough to invoke feelings of anger, of rage. He darts forward, using his speed to close the distance between Girder and himself in less than a second, and he punches the machine’s torso without releasing his hold on the speedforce.

Harrison examines the metal with a curious eye; it is a testament that the young man has never done this before, because Barry doesn’t make a _dent_. In fact, thinking back on some of the blows that he’s traded with the older Flash, equal in their intensity, in their hatred, locked into each other and the speedforce – this Barry’s efforts are pathetic, simply because Harrison knows the young man is capable of so much _more_.

Barry ducks, and Cisco crows in delight as Girder’s arm misses Barry’s head by scant centimeters. A few more swift, sharp punches to the machine’s side, and then –

It happens quickly. Barry doesn’t dodge the blow, and the machine lands a hit that carries both a fair amount of speed and quite a bit of weight. There is a tumble, the heavy sound of a body slamming into unforgiving floor, and a gasp from where Caitlin is avidly watching.

“Dislocated shoulder,” Barry groans from where he’s curled on the ground. “Oh. Ow.”

***

Leonard Snart watches, bemused, as his little sister wastes no time in making herself at home in his hotel room. In the time it has taken Len to retrieve the supplies to rig a compress for his bloody nose – a bucket of ice, a plastic bag, and a thin towel – Lisa has hung up her decorative, denim jacket, removed her fashionable heels, and hidden two empty suitcases in the closet. It’s a pretty safe bet that the contents of those suitcases have been stuffed in the secondary dresser that Len hadn’t needed.

“Don’t you want your own bed, Lisa?” Len asks, cautiously applying the ice to his nose.

“No rooms available. I already checked at the front desk,” she replies, flopping onto his bed as she makes the motions for snow angels atop the comforter. “God, that’s good. Haven’t been in a real bed for weeks,” she laments.

“Oh?” Len says. She’s lying to him. Badly, at that.

“Okay,” she laughs, “You got me. I’ve been in plenty of comfy beds over the last couple of weeks. But most of them were occupied, and I wasn’t there to sleep, so really, it’s nice to have a bed all to myself.”

“ _My_ bed,” Len counters mildly.

Lisa smirks at him, a painfully familiar expression that she learned from watching him. “And it’s sweet as cherry pie that you’re willing to share it with your favorite sister, yeah?”

“Only sister,” Len corrects with a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, you can have the bed–”

There is a delighted squeal as Lisa buries her face in the pillow.

“– _if_ you tell me why you’ve been hounding Mick for the last couple of weeks.”

“Because you’re my big brother and I missed your stupid face?” she replies. “Duh.”

“Lisa,” Len says without inflection, “I’m not an idiot. If you missed me, you’d have been hounding _my_ phone, not Mick’s. You wanted to make sure that I was relatively safe – but you didn’t want to talk to me directly.”

Lisa nibbles her lower lip, pouting a little, but she doesn’t deny it.

“Which means you were doing something you didn’t want me asking about. And because you _are_ my little sister and I can read you like an open book, you did the only thing that would keep me from getting curious. So.” Len gives her a long, slow look. “Spill.”

“Fine.” Lisa rolls her eyes. “I was doing some snooping on Harrison Wells, okay? Seeing as how he landed Blue-eyes in the coma, I figured a little blackmail on him would cheer you up.”

“I’ve taught you so well,” Len says, amused. “But why keep is a secret?”

“Because I wanted to surprise you!” she exclaims. “Only, the man is _so_ boring, my digging didn’t turn up anything, and I wasn’t going to mention it at all. Jerk.”

Shaking his head at the irony, Len snags the dossier he’s put together on Wells with his free hand and passes it to his sister. Lisa opens the folder and scans through the contents quickly. “Yeah, pretty much what you see is what you get,” she says. “One thing I did find out though – after this accident, Wells became a totally different man. Guess losing the love of your life will do that to a guy.” She gives Len an incredibly pointed look which he chooses to ignore.

“So,” Lisa says, snapping the folder shut with a flourish, “Last I heard from Mick, you were on a personal vendetta to take down some fancy boy in a red suit. Why are you researching Harrison Wells?”

“Because they’re connected.” Seeing the surprise on Lisa’s face, Len passes her the other two folders. He then launches into a detailed report of his discoveries – how Barry’s mother was killed by an impossible man, how the “fancy boy” in the suit moves more quickly than the human eye can follow, how S.T.A.R. Labs is connected to both Barry and the Streak. It’s exhilarating to be able to share the information with Lisa, because while she knows how his mind works, she’s always seen the world just a little differently from him. He’s missed this – missed her. He suppresses a smile as he watches the way her lips purse up in thought, the crease that wrinkles her brow, and the mindless way she twirls a finger through her hair.

“Jeez, Lenny. What the hell? It’s like Conspiracy Island or some shit,” she says when he’s finished. “You’re right though. Way too many coincidences to dismiss. And you’re sure the Streak is responsible?”

“I asked him if he was there that night,” Len replies with a shrug. “You know when it comes to body language, there are very few people who can lie to me. He was there.”

Lisa makes a little hum of agreement in the back of her throat, her expression distant as she ponders some internal debate. Finally she says, “Then I guess we’ve got a kidnapping to plan. Wells seems like the safe bet, but I have to tell you–” She snags a surveillance photo of Cisco Ramon from the folder she is idly flipping through, “–this one? _Such_ a cutie-pie.”

Len is saved from having to reply when a sharp, angry knock sounds from the door. As the last time he opened the door without thinking landed him a bloody and – yeah, he tenderly touches a finger to the flesh – broken nose, this time he checks the peephole.

Mick Rory stands on the other side, red-faced and furious. He’s got a split lip, and the beginnings of a beautiful black eye. Len opens the door before his partner slams his fist to it again.

“What happened?” Len asks, at the exact same time Mick takes in his bloody nose and says, “The fuck?”

Len jerks his head to where Lisa is posing on the hotel bed. She grins and gives Mick a saucy little wave and a kissy-face. 

“Nice,” Mick says, glancing from Len’s injury to Lisa’s boobs where they’re threatening to spill out of her low-cut shirt. It’s a testament to how irritated he is that he only spends about ten seconds ogling Lisa’s assets before he gives Len his full focus. The scarred man gestures to his face and says, “Found our impossible human. He’s a dick.” A pause, then, “I think I broke my wrist on his face.”

Len’s mind shifts to overdrive. Elation – confirmation of the metal-man’s abilities, if Mick managed to hurt his hand when punching him. Aggravation – if this guy is truly an uncooperative asshole, there’s no way Len and Mick, and now Lisa, can work with him. Curiosity at war with unfamiliar hope – there will be more impossible humans. This is a war that Len can win, if only he can gather the right sort of crew to support him. But first – 

“Sit down.” Len gestured to the bed. “There’s some leftover ice in the bucket. Keep it on your wrist. Lisa, first aid kit in the bathroom. Grab it.” Both of them move to obey his orders, a well-oiled machine. It’s like they never left.

“Now,” Len says as Mick settles the ice on his swelling wrist, without a whisper to show for his pain. “Tell me _everything_.”

***

When Barry finds his way back to S.T.A.R. Labs the next day, it’s with a fair bit of information gleaned from tagging along with Eddie Thawne’s investigation of Tony’s stolen vehicle. Granted, the information is quite helpful, even if it does come from a rather lackluster source.

Currently, Barry and Cisco are working at Cisco’s station in the cortex. Caitlin is in her lab, though she’d called out a greeting to Barry when he first arrived. The man known as Harrison Wells has parked his wheelchair across the room, far enough away that he can easily, unobtrusively observe the interactions of his team, but still close enough to answer any questions posed to him. 

There is a bit of back and forth debate between Barry and Cisco as they toss out ideas on how to defeat a man made of steel. Then, Cisco’s eyes widen, emitting that inner glow of joy that comes with genius. “Oh!” he says. “Oh, oh! Dr. Wells, do you have that analysis from the metal in Girder’s footprint?”

“I do,” Harrison replies, punching a few keys into his terminal to bring the information up on the overhead screen.

Cisco repeats the numbers aloud as he swiftly plugs them into his computer, then projects that simulation in place of Harrison’s data. “So, how about this? Any material, if struck at a high enough velocity, can be compromised. Based on the density and atomic structure–” The young engineer’s fingers fly deftly across the keyboard, “–impacted at just the right angle, just the right speed–”

Barry makes a face. “How fast are we talking here, Cisco?”

“–factoring in the variables now – tensile strength, estimated dermal thickness, atmospheric pressure, air temperature – um.” Cisco nibbles his lip, meeting Barry’s eyes nervously. “Approximately Mach One.”

Caitlin’s timing as a concerned party is, as always, impeccable. Her heels click on the tile floor as she strides into the cortex and demands, “You want Barry to hit something at eight-hundred miles an hour?”

Cisco clarifies, “Eight-hundred thirty-seven, actually.” 

“That’s faster than the speed of sound,” Barry says, disbelief in every line of his body. 

The man known as Harrison Wells needs Barry to achieve that speed and shoot far, far beyond it. The self-doubt in the young man’s voice? That simply won’t do.

“You’d create a sonic boom, which as I’ve said before, would be _awesome_.” Cisco is clearly giddy with the thought, and he shifts from one foot to the other, unable to contain his energy.

“I’ve never gone that fast,” Barry murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.

Harrison steers his chair so that he ends up by Barry’s side, a staunch pillar of support. “Yet,” he tells Barry, confidence and clarity. “You’ve not gone that fast _yet_.”

“I really can’t believe we’re actually entertaining this idea,” Caitlin says. 

Barry glances at Harrison, and his expression softens. “You really think I can do this,” he says, and a small, goofy smile turns the corners of his mouth up. 

“I do,” Harrison replies, and without conscious thought, he extends his hand toward Barry. He registers what he’s doing a moment too late, and Barry takes his hand gives him a quick squeeze of reassurance. The spark of lighting travels between them in an instant, just as Barry releases his grip and gives Cisco his full attention.

Cisco – who is exchanging a tiny, smug grin with Caitlin – and Harrison bites the inside of his cheek savagely. Damnit.

“By the way, I know you’re a fan of figuring out how these metahumans happen, and I found out that Tony – through a combination of his anger-issues and some really crappy luck – fell into a vat of molten scrap at his job when the accelerator blew,” Barry explains to Cisco, either ignoring the juvenile antics or possibly just oblivious to them. “It’s a pretty sure bet that’s how he got his abilities. Although, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, he died ten months ago.”

Harrison steers his chair back to his terminal, listening with a half-ear as he works through some mental mathematics. Really, if Barry is connected to the speedforce, the barrier it creates around him should allow him to use his “super-sonic punch,” as Cisco calls it, without fear of injury. Still, Barry’s connection to the speedforce is still in its infancy, and it can’t hurt to run some numbers concerning the distance and proper angle needed.

“Once you beat him, he’ll fit right in with the rest of the pipeline prisoners,” Cisco replies. “Seriously, dude, have you ever thought about it? Clyde Mardon. Danton Black. Kyle Nimbus. And soon, Tony Woodward. You know what they all have in common?”

Caitlin, apparently having gotten over her earlier fear on Barry’s behalf, replies, “They’re all male? Also, metahumans?”

Cisco shakes his head. “Legally, they’re all _dead_ ,” A pause, then, “It’s like... I don’t know. It’s like we’re working in a necropolis, and yeah, all of them are still breathing, but not one of them is alive. Coming to work is like tiptoeing through the tombstones. You know what I mean?”

The man known as Harrison Wells glances over his shoulder. Caitlin and Barry are giving the young engineer peculiar looks, but Harrison feels a little chill go down his spine. He meets Cisco’s eyes, wondering. Cisco has a rather curious habit of knowing things he shouldn’t say, and of saying things he shouldn’t know. Perhaps all Harrison can do to confirm his suspicions is observe, but with every day that passes, it seems more and more likely that Barry wasn’t the only one on this team affected by the explosion.

“Yes, Cisco,” Harrison replies at length, and he thinks of the people of Central City. Each and every one of them, dead to him for centuries. “I know exactly what you mean.”

There is a moment of strange silence, then Barry adds, “Sonic-punches aside, first I have to find the guy. I tried the Keystone Ironworks’ mines but it looks like something went down there.” He frowns, clearly visualizing the place in his mind. “It was a mess when Eddie and I checked it out, like someone got into a full on brawl. If Tony _was_ hiding there, I don’t think he’ll be back anytime soon.”

Barry’s phone beeps once, and he checks it absently. Abruptly, his entire body goes rigid. His eyes go wide, fearful, and he gasps, “Oh, shit.”

Cisco tilts his head to the side and says, “You okay, dude?”

“I just got a text from one of Iris’ co-workers at Jitters,” Barry replies faintly. “He took her.” The color drains from his face and he clarifies, “Tony took Iris.”

***


	29. [4/4] Episode 6: The Wicked Stepsister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One step forward, two steps back~ don't hurt me, please?
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Thank you for reviewing. In general, thank you for being such a wonderful fan-base!

***

Even as he works, his primary attention focused to the tasks at hand, the man known as Harrison Wells continues to observe the proceedings around him through half-lidded eyes. Barry is white-faced, pale in the fluorescent lighting of the cortex as he wrings his hands together, frustrated, useless. Caitlin stands by his side, a hand on his shoulder, comforting.

Cisco types furiously, fingers a blur as he triggers a series of subroutines, retasking S.T.A.R. Labs satellite, partitioning the server. Harrison himself is using a sliver of their technological manpower to hack into a succession of security cameras, even as Cisco jumps through a series of interconnected cell phones, following Iris’ audio-visual “scent” closely, afraid to lose the trail.

While Harrison and Cisco work in tandem, Barry’s cell phone rings. The unexpected sound makes Caitlin jump, but Barry doesn’t miss a beat as he pulls the phone out of his pocket, glances at the caller ID, and answers, pressing the device to his ear.

“Joe,” Barry says by way of a greeting. “I know. I’m – I mean, we’re on it.” A pauses. Barry frowns, shakes his head even though the good detective is not present to see the motion. “No – ah, no. I’m at S.T.A.R. Labs. As soon as we find anything–” The young man’s jaw clenches, grit mixed with fierce determination. “I’ll get her back, Joe. I promise.”

 _Really_ , Harrison holds back a sigh in the face of Barry’s blatant naivete. _Don’t make promises you may not be able to keep._

“Okay. Okay,” Barry says to the phone. “Call me if you find out anything else.”

 _Oh, Barry_ , Harrison muses as he works. At this moment, in the Flash’s infancy, so full of hope. So sure that the dangers of this world are straightforward, honest. So painfully _innocent_. 

_The monster under your bed is real, Barry Allen. The glowing red eyes that haunt your nightmares – they are not the fanciful imaginings of a distraught child. There are skeletal fingers reaching out for you, pulling you down, ready to bury all you are, all you love_ –

“Carmichael Elementary,” Cisco says abruptly, eyes glued to his computer screen. “That’s where they’ve stopped.”

Barry nods once. “Thank you.” He glances over to where Harrison sits. Their eyes lock for a split second, but that short time is more than enough. Barry’s eyes are bright, so very expressive.

– _and I am included in that number_ , Harrison grudgingly acknowledges. _You will take my hand, the hand that holds the blade, and you will press it to your heart because you believe I will never hurt you. You will meet my eyes without fear, without regret, because you_ trust _me. Fuck._

Apparently Harrison’s facial control is excellent, even in times of – pathetic – emotional crisis, because whatever Barry sees in his expression makes the young man smile, a soft, half-twist of his lips, and offer the quiet reassurance, “It’ll be okay. I’ll be back soon.”

Barry flashes away, disappearing to change into his suit, charging off to the elementary school that he, Iris, and Tony Woodward all attended in their youth. As far as villains with history go, Harrison supposes there is appeal in the unsubtle poetry offered there – the root of conflict set into motion decades before, resolution found in a place of beginnings.

Caitlin pulls up a chair beside Cisco, joining them as the young engineer closes down the overload of data on the computer screen and replaces it with Barry’s vitals, monitored through the suit. He opens up the com-link, just in time to hear a faint, cocky voice saying, “Come to save your little fangirl?”

“This is between us,” Barry replies, voice distorted with vibration. “Let her go.”

“Oh, I could,” the cocky voice, which must belong to the infamous Tony Woodward, replies, “but I’d rather make her watch while I break every bone in your body.”

Harrison resists the urge to roll his eyes. As far as threats of bodily harm go, he rates the man a solid three. Little to no creativity, poor delivery. Between Girder and the Reverse-Flash, really, there is no comparison. Childhood nemesis indeed. A cheap, plastic imitation, for all the man is made of steel.

There is a rush, a rustle of movement, and Barry says gently, “Wait here.”

A breathless – distinctly female – voice replies, “Okay.” Apparently Ms. West is unharmed as of yet. An amateur mistake on Girder’s part. If the man took a hostage to hurt his enemy, he should have injured – possibly killed – that hostage before the rescue could occur. 

More movement, labored breath, and then a grunt of pain as Barry taunts, “Too slow, Tin Man!”

Battle banter. The man known as Harrison Wells does roll his eyes at this, but it’s part of Barry’s charm, he supposes. Now that Ms. West’s safety is relatively secure, Barry can indulge in a bit of verbal foreplay with his – nemesis.

“I’ve known guys like you,” Barry declares. “Peaked in high school. Never got over it!”

A few more grunts.

“All these powers, and look at you!” he continues. “Bully then. Bully now.”

Another grunt, coupled with the crash of a body - Barry’s body – slamming into hollow metal. Likely the school lockers, which would crumple beneath his weight.

The lights on the computer screen blink furious red, and Cisco bites his lower lip. “He’s hurt.”

“But he made it out,” Harrison says, following the little dot on the map that signifies Barry’s location.

“Barely,” Caitlin counters, eyeing the screen with a hint of trepidation. She frowns, “Why’d he stop?”

“Oh, no. No way!” Cisco’s glee is a tangible, visceral thing. “He’s gonna’ do it!”

The man known as Harrison Wells silently watches the dot on the screen, wishing he could be there in person. That feeling, that build of energy until it hits an intense, glorious peak. Connected to the speedforce, feeding it with his own energy, then being fueled in return. An endless, effortless cycle.

“Go, man, go!” Cisco cheers, even as Caitlin covers her eyes with her hands. She is unable to fully resist watching, though, and she peeks guiltily through an opening in her fingers.

Barry runs. The rush of air, whizzing by his open com-link. The faint tinkle of shattered glass in the background, windows exploding due to pressure. The wail of alarms, cars screaming in protest at his passing. Harrison can picture it clearly. The golden glow, the lightning that follows each and every step that Barry takes.

Speed is beautiful. It is amazing, and deadly, and so very addictive in its nature. Barry Allen is speed, but also – something else.

A whisper. A warning.

_Dangerous._

There is a boom over the com-link, and Cisco jumps from his seat, arms thrown up as if watching a sports match where the final, deciding goal has just been scored. “Supersonic punch, baby!” he whoops, exuberant. “Oh, yeah!”

Caitlin slumps forward in her seat, letting out a soft breath, relieved. She smiles at Harrison, then taps her palm over her chest, right around the area of her heart. “One day, this job is going to stop my heart,” she says with a tiny laugh. “Mark my words.”

The man known as Harrison Wells says nothing. He listens to Barry’s breath – steady, vibrant – over the com-link. He thinks of the speedforce, of the connection that he can feel growing even now. He thinks of his future, his world a century away, and the distance that cannot be described with words alone. He thinks of the Flash – of blood and failure and broken promises.

He thinks of Barry Allen and his treacherous heart skips a beat.

***

There is the matter of locking Tony Woodward in the pipeline, but it’s a brief affair since the man is out cold. Barry excuses himself to a full night of dealing with his semi-distraught foster-sister and his overprotective foster-father.

It isn’t until the next day that Harrison sees Barry again for any significant length of time. The young man zips into the cortex where Harrison and Cisco are working, and the moment the Barry’s feet slow down, his mouth picks up speed: “Is she here yet? I mean – I know I’m fast but I was running late and I promised her I’d meet her here because she said she didn’t want to be alone today but she said she felt weird just showing up out of the blue, and did I make it in time?”

Cisco’s summary response, a succinct: “Huh?”

“Iris,” Barry clarifies. “Is she–”

“Hey, Baer!” Ms. West peeks her head around the corner of the door, a sheepish smile on her face. “I thought I heard you in here.”

“Ms. West,” Harrison offers a cordial greeting. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Dr. Wells, please,” she replies, giving him a curiously intense look. “Call me Iris.” She steps through the doorway, moving to stand beside Barry. Her fingers quest forward, tangling with Barry’s, silently seeking – hm – support, perhaps? It’s possible her brush with the impossible the night before left her more shaken than her outward appearance might suggest. Still, the contact is thankfully brief, and her hand drops back down to her side without fanfare.

“Hi, Iris.” Cisco waves from where he’s perched on his moving chair. He pushes back with his feet, rolling away from the computer console as he swivels to face her. “Heard you had a – um – rough night? Something about some psycho you went to grade school with?”

“Yeah,” Ms. West – Iris – replies. “Tony Woodward. The whole thing’s pretty surreal, actually.”

“Pretty traumatic, you mean,” Barry says. The young man pulls Iris into a one-armed hug, a gesture of reassurance and affection. “Do you know – I mean – why did he pick _you_?”

“To talk about old times, I guess?” she replies. She curls into Barry’s side, soaking in the support. “He talked a little about you, Baer.”

Barry blinks, clearly surprised. “About me?”

“Yeah,” Iris snorts. “He wanted to know if I ‘still hung out with that loser Allen.’”

“Charming,” Harrison adds.

Cisco nods his emphatic agreement and Barry blushes faintly. 

Iris continues, “Other than that, he wanted me to stop writing about the Streak and start writing about him instead.” She sighs, shakes her head. “Clearly the guy never evolved from when we were kids. He’s still a self-centered narcissist with delusions of grandeur.”

“So...” Barry says leadingly, “Tony picked you – because of your blog?” Harrison has to smile the rather transparent non-sequitur. Apparently the young man senses an opportunity to turn the situation to his advantage, pointing out the danger Iris’s blog represents and perhaps even convincing the young woman to stop posting.

“Well, the blog was part of it, I guess,” Iris replies, completely oblivious to the point Barry is attempting to make, “and the fact that we knew each other as kids. Still, he had a point.” She pulls away from Barry’s side, her face animated, her hands fluttering up like hyper butterflies to illustrate her words. “There are more impossible men – and women? – than just the Streak. I want to write about all of them!”

“Wha–? Iris!” Barry exclaims, upset.

“I know, I know,” Iris says, waving her hand dismissively, “You’re just as bad as dad, Barry. And yeah, maybe it’s dangerous, but it’s _important_ to get the word out. People deserve to know the truth about what’s happening in this city!”

Cisco, ever helpful, prompts, “Do you have any leads?”

Barry stares at the young engineer, betrayed, and Iris grins, “Well, there are a scattering of posts about this Burning Man – a guy that’s on fire, except he doesn’t burn up–”

Harrison smiles wryly and suggests, “Perhaps you should come up with a catchier name to start.”

Barry shoots him a slightly grumpy glare. He straightens to his full high, a visual acknowledgment of acceptance, then sighs and slumps back down as he resigns himself to supporting Iris’ hobby. “Cisco’s pretty good at coming up with names,” he offers begrudgingly.

Cisco puffs up, at full attention in his chair.

“Oh?” Iris says. “Well, with a ringing endorsement like that. Say, what name would you give the Streak?”

Thrilled, Cisco leans forward, grinning conspiratorially. “That’s easy. I’ve been thinking about it for _weeks_ , and you know how he comes and goes in the blink of an eye–”

“–you mean, in a flash,” Barry interrupts absently.

Iris’ eyes widen, delighted. “Oh, that’s good.”

Cisco’s lips press together, thinning into a flat, displeased line. “Yup,” he says. He is a picture of flat irritation, that Barry stole his moment in the spotlight. “... in a flash.”

The man known as Harrison Wells returns to his work, and Iris chats with Barry and Cisco a while longer. Their topics range from the mundane to the ridiculous, but it’s clear that all three of them are trying to keep their subject matter light and innocuous. Eventually, Iris’ phone buzzes, and she excuses herself, saying that her boyfriend took a half-day at work so he could spend the rest of it with her. She presses a chaste, familial kiss to Barry’s cheek, waves to Cisco and Harrison, and ducks out the door.

Barry moves to stand beside Harrison’s wheelchair and says quietly, voice half-serious, “Is there any way to implant a subdermal tracking chip in someone without them knowing? Because if Iris really is planning on hunting metahumans, I feel being able to locate her 24-7 is a fair compromise.”

Harrison shakes his head in the negative and replies lightly, “That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

Cisco is the one to respond. He swivels in his chair, waving a hand as he says, “Maybe so, but I guess when you care about someone, you’re willing to go to some seriously extreme lengths to check up on them–” Cisco’s voice cuts off abruptly. Then, “ _Holy shit_.”

Barry blinks, moving to stand by the young engineer’s side. “What’s up?”

“Barry.” Cisco swats at Barry’s arm frantically. “Dude. I mean, Jesus, Barry, he doesn’t know!”

Harrison can only watch, bemused, at the look of complete and total confusion on Barry’s face. The young man puts a hand on Cisco’s shoulder and coaches, “Okay, dude. Slow down. Take a breath. Then, try again. What are you talking about?”

Cisco sucks in a lung-full of air, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth. He says, “Dude! Okay, so rewind to like, seven months ago, when Detective West first transferred you to S.T.A.R. Labs. There was this – um – mystery hacker person? Okay? And they were after information on you – coma you, pre-Streak. Or, I guess it’s official now, pre-Flash.”

 _Ah_ , Harrison thinks. Apparently Cisco has finally pieced together what Harrison has suspected for weeks. 

“I didn’t know who they were or what they wanted, so I made this program that generates these boring, false reports about you being in a coma. Just that, every day, with some basic vitals and a different date and time stamp to keep it convincing.” Cisco shakes his head, “And after you woke up from the coma, I kept that program running, generating dummy reports, just the same.”

Barry frowns, his mind working furiously, though he’s not yet understood the root of what Cisco is trying to tell him. “Um. Okay? But, why?”

Harrison interjects, “At first, because he forgot about the program. At least, until I discovered it when I was looking through some data a few weeks ago. After that? He kept the false reports running because I asked him to.”

Barry turns that confused, expressive gaze on Harrison. His eyes are lost, but not presently angry. “I – what I really don’t get is – what’s the point?”

“Honestly, Barry?” Harrison continues, “I always suspect the possibility of people like General Wade Eiling sniffing around, due to the nature of my work. We didn’t know who was looking into you – or why. From my perspective, anyone who was interested in your state of being could show up at this lab and ask about you directly – and all the people who mattered did. Joe West, Iris West, your co-workers.”

Harrison sighs, a small, frustrated sound. He finds this explanation tedious, though necessary. “I was of the opinion that anyone who resorted to stealing that information was up to no good, and I though it safer that they – whoever they are – believed you to still be comatose.”

Barry blinks, gaze swiveling between Cisco and Harrison. Cisco looks repentant. Harrison imagines he himself looks – weary. “I think,” Barry says, after a long, internal deliberation, “that I’m kind of upset you didn’t tell me? But. I also understand where you’re coming from.” The young man nods, once, decisive. Then he pins the both of them with an rather intense look, blue eyes practically glowing. “You’re forgiven. Don’t do it again.”

Harrison nods once as well, accepting of Barry’s judgement.

“Sorry, dude,” Cisco says contritely. “But – hear me out here – what if the mystery hacker is Captain Cold? Or maybe someone he hired to do the work for him? Barry, you dated the dude. If he wanted to check up on you, he couldn’t very well come here in person, seeing as how he’s a wanted man and all. So he hacks the reports, checks on your coma that way, only–”

“Oh!” Barry exclaims, understanding and enlightenment clicking several gears into place. He picks up smoothly from where he interrupted Cisco’s monologue, “–only you don’t know it’s him. You feed him the trail of false data, and then, when Len sees me – Flash-me – he still thinks I’m in a coma, and he tries to – what? – avenge my mother’s death because I’m not around to do it?”

“Exactly!” Cisco says, nodding vigorously. Then, “It’s actually convenient, because dude is pretty clever, and if you woke up from your coma the same week the Streak made his first appearance, you could kiss your secret identity goodbye.”

Barry rolls his eyes and says, “Seriously? My secret identity is kind of moot if my ex-boyfriend succeeds in killing me.”

“Oh.” Cisco blinks. “Yeah. Good point.”

“What will you do from here?” the man known as Harrison Wells feels compelled to ask. While he has little control over the way these events unfold, he can at least content himself with the knowledge that he has a front row seat to the conception. This gives him ample opportunity to alter his future plans.

Barry nibbles his lower lip. “I. If Len really doesn’t know I’m awake, that needs to be fixed. Maybe – um–” He looks at Cisco and asks, “Can we update that program of yours? Nothing too crazy. Just. Wake me up.”

Cisco nods slowly. “Not a problem. What are you thinking, dude?”

“If it really is Len on the other end of that line, when he finds out I’m awake, he’ll – I don’t know – contact me? Call me? Something. And maybe – maybe, I can talk to him. About all of the lies he told me. And about not trying to kill my alter-ego.”

Harrison meets Barry’s eyes, unwavering. “And then?” he asks, all at once unsure if he really desires an answers to his unspoken question.

Barry smiles, an uncertain wobble of his lips. He shakes his head helplessly and says softly, “I don’t know.”

***

Leonard Snart stares up at the ceiling of his hotel room. He can hear Mick Rory snoring loudly through the closed door, where he’s passed out in a pile of pillows and blankets in the bathtub. Lisa is stretched out like royalty on the bed, and Len is attempting to make himself comfortable on the fold-out cot he’d dug out of the closet.

He shifts, rolling from his back to curl on his side. He hooks his arm underneath the pillow he’s managed to steal from Mick’s greedy pile, and he pulls it close as he tries to sleep. His recently-set nose throbs uncomfortably.

“You’re a jerk, Lenny,” Lisa says softly from the bed. She does not move an inch and when he looks over at her, her eyes remain closed.

“You broke my nose,” Len replies, deliberately, and just as quiet, “Are you really going to add insult to injury?”

“You should have called me,” Lisa whispers, and there is heartbreak in her voice. This is why, Len realizes, he was greeted with a punch to the face when he opened the door. Ever since they were children, they have stood together. They have wandered off, branched out on their own, but always – always – they call each other back in their times of need. Together they stand, back to back, against their father, against the world.

They survive together. They always have, and Len can see where Lisa’s coming from, because if she ever went off to tackle some angry vendetta and didn’t bring him along as her backup, he’d be pissed as hell and hurt to boot. There is nothing – _nothing_ – that is sister could involve herself in that would keep him from her side. 

And it goes both ways. It’s so true it makes his chest ache a little, because Len needs his little sister. He needs to know she’s got his back. He needs her to question his plans, to offer her opinions and perspective. And ultimately, there’s no one else in this world who he can trust to follow his lead when the chips are down. 

Well. Maybe Mick. He’s a hothead, but he’s Len’s partner and for all his faults, he’s a loyal fuck.

“I should have called you,” Len agrees quietly.

Lisa sniffs. It’s a tiny, harmless sound, and Len goes stiff in his uncomfortable cot. Shit, oh shit, he hopes to fuck he didn’t make his little sister cry because not only will he feel like a dick about it, but in the morning she will make him pay both figuratively and literally and–

Leonard Snart risks a quick glance out of the corner of his eyes. To his everlasting relief, Lisa’s eyes are still closed, and her cheeks are dry.

“Don’t do it again,” Lisa warns him, soft and stubborn. Then, “Hey, Lenny?”

“Yeah?” he says.

“Don’t derail any more trains,” she tells him in tone that brokers no argument. “That shit was fucked.”

“No more train wrecks,” he agrees. Then he rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling again. He counts tiles for a while until he hears his little sister begin to snore. Slowly, careful not to wake her, he sits up in his cot and moves quietly to his desk. He opens his laptop, boots it up, and stares blankly at the screen until he can open his e-mail.

He hasn’t looked at these reports for weeks. There is a build up of bolded e-mails, and he steels himself and double clicks on the most recent letter.

Barry Allen. Comatose. Condition stable. No change.

There is a tick in Len’s jaw, a brief, uncontrollable spasm of muscle as his teeth clench tight. He feels – frustration. Helpless, angry frustration, coupled with the sort of grief that will cripple him if he allows it. He reminds himself that he’s helping in some small way – hunting the Streak – but it doesn’t change the fact that Barry is laying in a fucking hospital bed, wasting away to nothing but a fucking memory’s ghost.

Those empty, repetitious words. The rawness of it. The dull ache in his chest. Fuck, he hates this so much.

Leonard Snart closes his inbox silently and makes a decision then and there. He’s done driving the knife into his own heart for the moment, thank you. He’ll start checking his inbox again when the Streak is dead. After all, Barry’s been in a coma for nearly a year. It’s not like a couple more weeks is going to make a damned bit of difference.

***

“Okay, dude,” Cisco tells Barry. “The program is updated. Starting tomorrow, whoever is on the other end of these reports is going to know you're awake.”

Barry nods, then looks to the man known as Harrison Wells for something. Support?

The words are on Harrison’s lips before he can stop them, reminiscent of so many weeks ago. “Welcome back, Mr. Allen,” he says gently.

And he cannot deny the tiny stirrings of hope when Barry grins at him and teases, “Call me Barry.”

***


	30. [1/1] Interlude: The Black Sheep (Ba-Ba)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, very shortly, the number of comments is going to overtake the number of kudos, and while half of those are just me responding, the other half are people who are _not_ me. That's insane! I have the very best reviewers! :D Here's an interlude that probably no one wants, and the next "real" chapter should be up in another couple of days. Thank you for the kudos, thank you for the comments, and there are a handful of translations at the end of the chapter for those who care.
> 
> Also? This chapter contains some references and descriptions of child abuse and domestic violence. Nothing super-graphic, but if you're sensitive to that, please be warned.

***

Blood smears on the bone-colored walls. Bits of brain on the carpet. His mama screams across the room, but it sounds like she’s across the street, distant and faded. She is crying, and there is a police officer who holds her back with two burly arms as she struggles, hysterical and lost.

There is no one to hold back a little boy. Tiny fingers tug the cover away, exposing the body on the ground. His tata’s eyes are like broken mirrors, lifeless and wide. The bloody hole in his forehead mirrors the round “oh!” of his lips, parted in surprise. The expression speaks clearly, that he didn’t see this coming.

They say no one saw this coming.

(Hidden in the closet, a little boy doesn’t make a whisper. His father’s partner points the weapon with a hand that doesn’t waver. Pulls the trigger, though the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. _Business_ , he says. _You understand._ )

The world ends with a gunshot. He is eight years old.

Everyone makes noises of sympathy. They smile, pat his head, tell him that things will get better. Life goes on, they say. Like how his father’s partner starts hanging around his mama, bringing flowers and whispered promises. That’s a good man, everyone says. How lucky your mama is to have found him.

They are all dirty liars. They see what they want to see. His mama wears black, wrapped in mourning lace, and she is not lucky. His father’s partner has a smile that looks like shark’s teeth. His expression is sharp; he scents blood in the water. 

This house is expensive. The bills are piling up. The debts are overwhelming, heartless and cruel. Money for mortgage. Money for electricity and water. Money for car insurance, money for gas. Money for the phone bill, money for food.

“Why are you doing this?” a little boy hears his mama ask, and she sounds – resigned. Sad. Scared.

“Because you’re a fine lookin’ woman, Maria,” the man replies. “And someone’s got to keep an eye on that brat of yours. No one likes a tattle-tale.”

(A little boy watches with hooded eyes as his mama walks down the aisle. Her dress is bone-white and lacey. She is beautiful – but she never stops mourning. A step towards the alter, a foot in the grave. His mama remarries for money, not love. Her lips tremble as she whispers to the monster in the bedroom. _Business_ , she says. _You understand._ )

His stepfather hits him, once, hard enough to send him sprawling. Mama screams. His stepfather hits her, too. He is nine years old.

“Looks like you were born to take a beating,” the man says, laughing like it’s the world’s greatest joke.

“It’s not fair,” a little boy sobs, thinking of fathers and stepfathers and the miles of distance between four letters.

“Life is not fair, _vita mia_ ,” his mama whispers. Lips pressed to his forehead, brittle and dry, the whisper of autumn leaves on his skin. So close he can smell her perfume, sweet violets, mixed with spicy herbs, a hint of garlic, and prevailing overall, something warm and wonderful that just smells like mother.

A year passes uneasily. A little boy grows, a bit older, a bit stronger. He sucks on his rage like a lollipop, swallows it down with blood and bile. He tallies his black eyes and his broken bones and he _hates_. He hates the man who sleeps in his mother’s bed. He hates the father who was trusting and stupid and left him alone. He even hates the boy who sits next to him in class, who smiles that stupid, honest smile and asks him if he’s okay.

(Only he doesn’t really hate Barry, the boy in his class, because no one else – none of the other students or even a single teacher – is willing to look him in his blackened eye and ask him what’s wrong. Barry is nervous and smart, and when the little boy – not so little now, but still so very small inside – doesn’t understand, Barry takes the time to explain. Barry leans over his shoulder, warm and kind, and tells him he got it right, good job, and – that’s better. That’s good. He forgets about the rage that threatens to consume him whole and he is a child again, and that’s–)

A little boy is now just a boy. He hides his bruises with baggy clothes that don’t catch or rub. He is picked up and thrown like a ragdoll into the downstairs closet, locked in with a click and a snicker. His fingernails are dull and raw and the inside of the door is streaked with old blood. He has more welts on his back than he cares to count, and a black eye that never seems to heal. He has one friend, and he is so damned happy. He is ten years old.

The world is rebuilt. Slowly, with colored construction paper and see-through tape, bits of bright string and glitter and tubes of glue. 

His mama is in the kitchen, brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. It tumbles over her shoulder as she turns her head; there are several little curls that escape the band, uncontrollable and wild. She wears a ratty apron and she moves like one of those fancy ballerinas as she glides along the counter, steps lightly from the sink to the stove. She manages two giant, mismatched bowls and her fingers are deft as she adds and mixes. She takes raw meats and spices and finely chopped greens. Suddenly, there are burger patties frying in the pan on the stove. The smell makes the boy’s mouth water.

He sits very still at the kitchen table and watches her move. He loves her hands. They are callused and strong, her nails are chipped and worn. They are beautiful and they are magic. In the kitchen where she cooks breakfast and lunch and dinner, she creates things from nothing. 

She hums softly under her breath. She turns her head to look at him, and the boy sees the motley patch of brown and purple and yellow that sits high on her cheekbone. It is swollen, an ugly thing. Her eye is bloodshot at the very center, mismatched like her kitchen bowls.

“ _Vita mia_ ,” she calls out. “Be a sweetling and get those potatoes from the fridge for mama.”

He hops down from where his sits and opens the refrigerator door. He crouches down, awkwardly tugs open the single drawer, and pulls the bag of potatoes out with one hand. They are heavy and they make his arm tremble with strain. He looks at his other arm, at the bulky white cast Doctor Giordano says he must keep for at least four more weeks. It will come off just before the start of the new school semester.

He struggles underneath the weight but he manages to get them up on the counter with just one arm, and his mama coos, “My big, strong man.” It makes his face flush red; he wishes it were true. He is big for his age, but he wishes to be the biggest, the strongest. If only, if he could be that – _don’t say his name, don’t even think it_ \- no one could ever hurt him or his mama again. 

There is a boom, the spluttering backfire of exhaust, and a car pulls into the driveway. 

His mama kisses his forehead and urges him upstairs. “I will bring you dinner in bed later, my sweet boy,” she says urgently. “Now go!”

He doesn’t go upstairs. He goes to the downstairs closet, closes the door softly, and slides his back down the wall as he hides in the coats. He hears his stepfather open the front door with a bang. Then, a scream, “MARIA!”

His mama sounds scared but also strong and fierce as she replies, “Paulo. You’re home early.”

“Oh, you bitch,” the man says. “You filthy fucking whore. You knew you knew you knew–”

“I know many things. You’ll have to be more specific,” his mama says, and laughs with malicious merriment. “That you killed my husband? That you did so on someone else’s orders? That you enjoyed it, far more than you should?”

“I _am_ your husband, bitch,” the man growls, “and the joke’s on you. All that evidence and you sent it to the wrong fucking man. JK’s a dirty cop too, and we take care of our own.”

“Oh, I know,” his mama says slyly. “So many dirty cops in this city, because you murder the good ones in cold blood, and you have the audacity to think I can’t tell the difference?”

There is a pause, heavy and tense, and the man says. “What the fuck did you do?”

And his mama laughs again, a bright, broken noise. The tinkling sound of delight, of cracked mirrors and shattered glass on the ground. “I sent him the evidence because I want him to _know_ what’s coming, Paulo. Because those documents? Those photographs? Those skeletons tucked away in your closet? I sent JK the copies. It’s the FBI who got the _originals_.”

There is a splutter of horror and his mama giggles, “Did you really think I married you just for the money, _figlio di puttana_?” Then, far more serious, “You never should have touched my son.”

The shatter of delicate porcelain, of a lamp or a knickknack hurled against the wall. “I’ll kill you!” the man rages, and then the unmistakable click a gun being cocked.

(The boy will know that sound anywhere, for the rest of his life. It is the sound that took his father, and now, it takes his mother, too. Because she is beautiful and she is clever, but she wants her revenge more than she loves her son or she wouldn’t have _left him alone_ –)

His stepfather staggers from the house to make his calls, to cover things up and sweep them into the closet, to lie and lie and lie. The boy cries silently from where he is hidden. The world, just barely glued together again, ends for a second time. He is eleven years old.

Everything falls apart. School is not important and the boy – growing bigger, everyday, but still so small inside – picks fights with anyone. With everyone. And when he trudges home, his stepfather waits for him, with a belt and a sharp smile. The man is a liar and he has gotten away with murder – twice, at least. He is three feet taller and two-hundred pounds heavier and this place? This place is hell, and there is no escape.

Even the sweet boy in his class isn’t safe, but it turns out Barry doesn’t smile much these days anyway, because his father murdered his mother, right in front of him. For the boy, it’s like looking in a distorted mirror. He does the only thing he can – he punches it because it’s ugly and he doesn’t like what he sees.

“You’re a freak,” he says, and he’s not talking to Barry, not really. “Just like your old man!”

“Leave him alone!” a little girl, Iris, yells at him.

“Or what?” he says, eyes narrowing. The black bruise over his eye where his stepfather hit him yesterday throbs. “Is he gonna’ murder me, too?”

He pushes Barry into the locker, hard enough to bruise, and spits, “Looks like you were born to take a beating, Allen.” – only he stops because he knows those words, his stepfather’s filthy words in his mouth like they belong there, and it’s _horrible_.

“It’s not fair!” Barry says, curled on the ground to protect himself. Iris is on her knees beside him, kindness and caring – and weakness.

“Life’s not fair,” the boy says softly, and that’s – that’s better and worse, because those are his mother’s words. Saying them stings, just like peroxide on bloody knuckles. He flees, finds a broom closet to hide in, sinks down to the floor and cries silently, even as the bell for the next period rings.

He runs away from home that night, for the first time. He is twelve years old.

After that? He survives. He steals when he needs to eat, sleeps in the streets or crashes with the homeless in abandoned buildings, finds other kids like him with shitty homes and shittier parents and doesn’t get close enough to any of them to care when they leave. He’s in and out of juvenile detention centers, marching down the precinct aisle as his stepfather bails him out and takes him home and beats him for being such a fucking embarrassment until he runs away again.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.

He gets his GED in juvie when he’s got nothing better to do with his time. He eats his vegetables and his proteins and does all the exercises his cellmates show him, building muscle and bulk because he’s so tired of people looking at his face and thinking they can fuck with him. They don’t know how much he hates the world at large, indiscriminate in his rage, but when they reach for him, to give him shit, to start trouble – they will. 

He breaks noses and hands out black eyes and he hates himself a little bit because he’s really good at hurting people. One time he finds himself with a belt in his hand standing over some punk screaming, “You were born to take a beating, shit head,” and he doesn’t even know how he got there or what set him off.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

He graduates from the detention centers and finds himself in jail more often than not, and his stepfather isn’t legally obligated to bail his ass out anymore, so he doesn’t. He is lost, drifting, defined only by his hatred and it’s easier to live day to day, hand to mouth, because it keeps him focused on the present. Better the present, spitting anger and obscenities, than locked in the past where a little boy cries, helpless and alone, and no one will come to save him.

He’s not that boy anymore. He’s mountains of muscle, fists heavy and unforgiving. The boy is now a man. Still angry, still hateful – (still afraid) – and then there is another job he’s going to lose, because his shit manager says something that sets him off and he snaps. He uncoils like an angry, poisonous snake and he’s on the guy, wailing on his stupid face. There are hands, co-workers, scrambling to pull him off.

They manage, a couple of them at the same time, only he trips and he’s suddenly spiraling into a molten vat of scrap and that’s – 

That’s the end, right? Like his father. Like his mother. Killed and forgotten and that’s – good. That’s better than he ever thought he’d get. Only there isn’t a light at the end of the tunnel and when he wakes up, no one can ever hurt him again.

The first thing he does is go to his stepfather’s house. Across the street one night, hidden by the neighbor’s bushes, he finds himself staring through the window at a man he barely recognizes. The man is pushing sixty, dark hair receding, peppered with patches of white. He is retired now, old and sagging. There are lines on his face – that sharp, shark-like look crinkled and faded with age. 

The little boy – the boy – the man – they are fueled by hate and rage. This man – this stupid fuckstain of a human being – this man _broke_ him. Took his childhood and his safety and twisted them until they snapped and all he wants to do is bust through the door and beat his face in until it’s a bloody, unrecognizable pulp of meaty flesh and splinters of bone.

But he doesn’t. He can’t. He is eight years old, peeking through the open closet door. He has no control. He is terrified.

He turns away and finds himself at a bar, drowning that fear with cheap beer, hitting on anything that moves in the hopes that maybe, maybe he can piss someone off enough to take a swing at him. No matter how hard they hit him, he doesn’t feel it. It’s disappointing in a way he never thought to question, because pain? Pain has been a constant companion to his rage. And now it’s gone.

He is twenty-six years old, listlessly hopping from bar to bar. He has no control. He is terrified.

And then he wakes up with an ache in his jaw that he hasn’t felt in months. He looks around, oddly comforted by the smallness of the glass room in which he is trapped. There is no way out, except to break the walls, and he scrambles to his feet and says, “Hey! Hey, what is this? Where the hell am I?”

There is a cot and a computer screen and a tray with food and water in the corner, and in the other corner, what looks to be some kind of urinal and maybe a sink? It’s like prison, if prison was kind of futuristic and fancy and meant constant solitary confinement.

“Somewhere you’ll never hurt anyone ever again,” comes the unexpected reply, and there is a man standing on the other side of the glass, hidden in the shadows.

“What the fuck?” he says. His fingers curl to fists and he smashes his hand into the barrier that separates them. Nothing happens, and the moment is the definition of anti-climactic.

“I’ll be here, once a day,” the man says, voice distorted with vibration. “To talk to you, if you want me to. Or to listen. And once my team figures out a way to suppress your powers? We’ll send you to a regular jail and you can be someone else’s problem.”

The man nods, once, and then the walls are moving, closing in on him. From somewhere he cannot see, there is a second voice who asks, “That feel pretty good, dude?”

“Tony Woodward is a bully,” he hears the man in red reply, just before the doors slide completely shut. The words linger in the air, and the voice – clear, undistorted – is strangely familiar. Then: “Taking down someone like that is – I don’t know – kind of refreshingly straightforward?”

Out of sight, out of mind. Tony punches the glass-like wall once, twice. His fists turn to metal with each impact, beyond his control. He is trapped and he is so angry. It’s not fair.

 _Life is not fair_ , his mother whispers in his head.

 _Looks like you were born to take a beating_ , his stepfather laughs.

Tony punches the wall until his arms grow tired. Because of the nature of his skin, he can’t even bruise his knuckles anymore, can’t scrape the skin until it bleeds. There is no catharsis, no release. Just fists and walls and an empty ache.

“Fuck you,” Tony says to the empty cage. His back hits the wall and he slides to the ground until his butt hits the floor. He crouches there and stares into space and tries to hate, but mostly he’s just – spent. He’s a big man now, made of metal and unbreakable things – but he’s still so fucking small inside.

***

_tata_ (polish): daddy  
_vita mia_ (italian): literally, “my life.” endearment.  
_figlio di puttana_ (italian): son of a whore

***


	31. [1/4] Episode 7: The Pied Piper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, to defend myself ahead of time, I’m 99% positive that Barry cannot carry Tony Woodward without assistance. He’s fast, regenerates at incredible speeds, and has a sexy brain. Super-strength? Nope. And Tony is _big_ , damnnit. Not some princess to carry off lightly over a shoulder.
> 
> (Though a commenter made a rather good point, that if Barry could lift Tony on his own initially, once he accessed the speedforce, he'd be able to move him easily because he'd basically be negating gravity and Tony would be weightless. Of course, now I have this image of Barry holding onto Tony's arm and being like, "Oh, let me access my awesome gravity-bending powers!" and taking off, only to realize that he wasn't actually supporting any of Tony's weight and ripping the poor guy's arm off... Er, yeah. So. For the purpose of this story, I'm saying that Barry can't lift Tony - or at least, at this point in his life, is unaware of his ability to lift Tony.)

***

A week passes at S.T.A.R. Labs, frighteningly uneventful. After Cisco alters his computer program to reflect Barry’s triumphant (and belated) awakening from his coma, there is a certain expectation in the air, of progression, of development. There is the belief that events will unfold, and even Harrison himself is not immune to the itch of anticipation. Where events will fall from this point is yet unknown, and waiting for an unseen opponent’s hand to make their move is maddening. 

Still, it’s a strange lull. There are no new metahuman threats, and Barry hasn’t been confined to a hospital bed in days. Caitlin has made headway with the prisoners in the pipeline, small victories, short term suppression from a biological standpoint on Clyde Mardon, but progress. And Cisco continues to scan military frequencies, searching for any hint, any sign of Bette Sans Souci. Despite all of these things – good, positive things – the man known as Harrison Wells can measure the sorrow in Barry’s open expression, can see the weight of it increase with every day that passes.

Leonard Snart has made no move to contact Barry.

When Cisco explained the mystery of the unknown hacker so many weeks ago, Harrison had run through a short list of suspects and estimated with some confidence the perpetrator to be the meddlesome Captain Cold. There are a scant handful of people in this time who would be specifically interested in Barry Allen’s coma: Joe West, Iris West, David Singh, a few nondescript coworkers, officers of the law and forensic analysts. Each and every one of those aforementioned persons had been fully capable of visiting Barry, both at the hospital, and after his transfer had gone through, at S.T.A.R. Labs.

There is a slim possibility that General Eiling or some other pompous, military moron may have been responsible for the breach, keeping a curious and questing eye on Harrison’s research, but the likelihood is low. Only information on Barry’s immediate health and well-being had been targeted – not a single other area of S.T.A.R. Labs research called into question. Whoever is on the other end of the proverbial line is interested in Barry Allen, and so there are two possibilities that come to mind.

Leonard Snart or the mystery shooter.

And while the man known as Harrison Wells’ first instinct is to pin this job on Snart, there is currently no evidence to support this theory. Snart has not changed his behavior since the “reveal,” has not called Barry or attempted to initiate any sort of contact. Following that line of logic, Snart is not responsible, and by process of elimination, Harrison must concede the mystery shooter is also the mystery hacker.

A most troublesome possibility, because it means the mystery shooter became interested in Barry Allen _before_ he woke up and discovered his abilities as the Flash.

There is nothing special about Barry Allen. Physically, he is a Caucasian male, mid-twenties, with dark hair. Statistically, he has the most common set of traits available, apart from his bright, blue eyes. On paper, he has excellent grades, and he is certainly intelligent – but he is not the greatest mind of his time. There is _no reason_ someone who did not know Barry personally should be interested in him. 

No reason, except that he is a metahuman. And if this mystery shooter knew – before even Barry himself was aware – that the Flash lay comatose in that hospital gurney, well– 

The man known as Harrison Wells frowns. His lip compress to a thin, angry line as his eyes narrow to slits. It is difficult for him to reign in his connection to the speedforce, and he is grateful that there is no one else in the back of the Paratrans-Plus van with him, because his eyes glow red, sharp and furious.

The mystery shooter is a time traveler.

This complicates things.

There is an uncomfortable lurch as his semi-regular driver pulls to a complete stop in front of Harrison’s rather opulent, grandiose estate. The middle-aged man with a slight limp whose name-tag reads “H. Finch” allows the van to idle in park as he opens the rear doors and pulls down the ramp. The motion is smooth, practiced. He inclines his head respectfully and says, “Your stop, Dr. Wells. See you in the morning?”

“Barring any unforeseen disasters,” Harrison concedes lightly as he steers his wheelchair down the ramp and towards the front door of his house. “Goodnight, Mr. Finch.”

“Goodnight, Dr. Wells.”

Keys in hand, a single button click unlocks the front door, and a second click activates the automated sequence. The luxurious double doors swing open without fanfare. When there is enough room, Harrison directs his wheelchair forward. Only when the doors have completely closed behind him does he stand, a skip to his step as he moves through his expensive, empty manor. At the end of each day, he very nearly vibrates with excess energy. It doesn’t matter where he walks – only that he does.

Tonight he finds himself standing at his wetbar, a decanter of finely aged whiskey in his hand as he pours himself a generous shot. It isn’t as though alcohol of this proof will affect him, but the burn as it travels the length of his throat is a – pleasant – distraction. And while he is quite capable of engineering a cocktail that _would_ affect his biology, he knows that he needs his full wits about him tonight.

He sips his whiskey and ponders this revelation. It isn’t set in stone, but the more he considers the possibility, the more it solidifies itself in his mind, cementing a place in reality.

A time-traveler. Someone from the future – or rather, a future. Someone who knows that Barry Allen is the Flash. Someone who came back to – what? Protect this young, fledgling hero? Protect him from what, exactly?

If the mystery shooter is the mystery hacker, Harrison can dismiss those actions. The act of hacking into S.T.A.R. Labs does not carry any positive or negative connotations; it is simply the neutral act of gathering information. Though it is strange, that the reports have continued to be faithfully retrieved each day, as the mystery shooter surely knows that Barry is awake. A ruse? A bluff? For what purpose?

There are also the shootings of Clyde Mardon and Wade Eiling to consider, as well as the destruction of Barry’s blood at the crime scene of the movie theater.

Harrison takes another sip of his whiskey, wanders listlessly from the bar to beneath the vast plains of glass that line the ceiling of his living room. The sky is dark and beautiful, a silent comfort as he paces the length of the room.

The act of shooting these two men, even if it is to protect Barry, is a conflict of interest for most superheroes in the future. There are certain principles that are adhered to – principles built from the ashes of vigilantes who strive to be better than their sad, gritty origin stories. This mystery shooter, while not responsible for any deaths that Harrison is aware of, certainly doesn’t shy away from the possibility. Guns are used to kill, primarily. Shooting two bullets into two living, breathing human beings – statistically speaking, that skirts the issue of killing too closely for most “heroes.”

On the other hand, the act of cleaning up Barry’s blood offers a curious glimpse into the mind of the shooter. If the shooter’s goal is to protect Barry, why is it the shooter did not _prevent_ Snart from spilling Barry’s blood to begin with? Why make an appearance after the fact, in an act that protects Barry’s identity, but making no move to protect Barry himself?

The man known as Harrison Wells does not have enough information. Having spent fifteen years building up a network of cameras to prevent such an oversight from occurring, it’s quite – frustrating. He sips his whiskey, savoring the slow burn in his throat, and his phone rings.

He pulls the phone from his pocket with his free hand, glancing at the screen. There is no name, no number. Harrison answers without hesitation. “Harrison Wells,” he states. “Hello?”

A moment of silence. The soft chuff of breath. Then, a familiar voice: “We both know what you did.”

Male. Young, but not a child. A hint of betrayal, an inkling of petulance. That peculiar tone, sing-song. It takes Harrison less than a second to identify the speaker.

Hartley Rathaway continues, “It’s time to pay the piper!”

Above, the windows begin to shake, tiny, infinitesimal tremors that are almost invisible to the naked eye. It isn’t that he sees them, but he can feel those vibrations in the air, dripping down on him like thick, heavy rainfall. The glass breaks, shattering into hundreds of thousands of tiny, jagged pieces, and the shards rain down on him, glistening, lethal.

The man known as Harrison Wells reaches for the speedforce without thinking, without allowing himself to hope, and it’s – oh, God. There is lightning, singing in his blood, whispering sweetly in his ear, and it sounds like Barry’s voice, and that’s– 

He is across the room in less than a second, skidding to a halt just out of range of the falling glass. All around him, movement, sound. His skin tingles, energy trapped beneath his skin, aching. Adrenaline pumps through his veins and he wants– 

– brilliant blue eyes, a smile that crinkles their corners with laughter – the sharp, surprised hiss of a body slammed back again a wall, the sound melting to a quiet moan – eager hands tugging at his hair, sinful mouth lavishing kisses of desperation, of desire – a whisper, wanton, shameless – please–

When the man known as Harrison Wells comes back to himself, it is to a silent, empty room, filled with the scattered remains of broken glass. Despite the chilly draft from above, the collar of his shirt is stifling and warm.

Harrison glances around at the mess and snorts softly. A meddling time traveler, a vindictive Hartley Rathaway, and the danger of Barry Allen. Really, what could possibly go wrong?

When the telltale siren sounds outside, loudly and nearby, and the knock comes on the door, he can’t even bring himself to feel surprised. Apparently one of his neighbors must have heard the noise and called the police. Lovely.

***

There is something mindlessly soothing about pouring through hours of video footage on fast forward, Leonard Snart muses wryly. His eyes keep careful watch over the usual areas of interest, mainly the employee parking area of S.T.A.R. Labs, as well as the back entrance that the Streak seems so fond of utilizing.

Cisco Ramon and Caitlin Snow’s cars are easily identified, as they are the only two vehicles parked on the premise every day. The Paratrans-Plus shuttle is also a regular feature at the labs, dropping Harrison Wells off at the same time every morning, though the times of pickup vary greatly. Joe West’s police car makes an occasional appearance, and there is one day where Iris West visits as well.

Currently Len is working his way backwards through the footage his cameras have collected over the last week. It’s tedious work, but necessary.

Across the room, Lisa and Mick sit across from one another on the bed. Lisa makes a face at Mick and says, “How the fuck are you so good at this game?” She throws her cards down on the comforter in disgust as she adds Mick’s success to the makeshift scrap-paper scorecard.

Len glances over, taking in Mick’s smug face. The man has taken to holding his cards awkwardly in his injured hand. Thankfully the wrist is only sprained, though all of his knuckles on that hand are busted. Still, the amount of time it will take to heal is comparatively small and certainly preferable to a broken wrist. At the moment, both of his hands are empty, and there are several matched sets spread in front of him. Lisa grumbles, tallying her own points and subtracting values still in her hand from the total.

“He cheats,” Len tells his sister without inflection, discarding several hours of useless video footage from his hard drive.

“Hey, I cheat, too!” Lisa defends with a pout.

“I cheat better,” Mick says. 

“I have boobs,” Lisa frowns. She sits a little straighter, arching her back, breasts straining against the soft cotton of her low-cut shirt. “Shouldn’t you be distracted or some shit?”

“I’m distracted,” Mick replies, eyeing the merchandise Lisa is so keen to display. He reaches over to snag his beer from the nightstand and takes a swig. “I still cheat better.”

Lisa makes a small sound, a discontented little huff. She gathers the cards, expertly shuffles them, and deals a new round. As her fingers fly through the movements, she calls out, “You gonna’ join us anytime tonight, Lenny?”

Len smirks and replies, “I cheat better than Mick does, and I’m not going to be distracted by your – assets. Are you sure you want me to play?”

“Someone has to beat this big lug at his own game.” Lisa grins. Then she fixes Mick with a pointed, piercing look and asks, “I don’t understand, though. Why Rummy? I’d have pegged your jam as Strip Poker, if anything.”

Mick grunts, “My gran.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“I – wait.” Len pauses the video footage abruptly. He rewinds it, replays it. Does it again. “Mick,” he says.

“Yeah, buddy?” Mick replies, folding his cards and placing them face-down on the bed. For a big man, he’s surprisingly stealthy and it only takes him a moment to move from where he sits to stand behind Len.

Len rewinds the video, clicks the play button. On the screen, Cisco Ramon’s car skids to a stop at the rear entrance of S.T.A.R. Labs. The driving is jerky, panicked. Ramon throws open the driver’s door, and the Streak opens the passenger’s door. The impossible man doesn’t look injured, and it’s bizarre watching him stepping out of Ramon’s vehicle at the same speeds the rest of the world uses.

The reason for the use of the car becomes apparent as Ramon and the Streak open the back door on the passenger’s side and together, struggle to carry an unknown man’s massive body into the labs.

“That’s the metal douche bag I fought,” Mick says, looking over his shoulder with interest. “He dead?”

The revelation sends an unpleasant tingle down Len’s spine. On the screen, Cisco Ramon is working in tandem with the Streak. There is nothing in his body language to suggest fear of the impossible man, or that he has been coerced or threatened in any way. He works with the Streak because he chooses to; in Len’s estimation, that choice does not bode well for Ramon’s future.

“Looks like he’s still breathing,” Lisa says, coming up behind Len to stand next to Mick as the three of them watch the video footage. On the screen, the metal man’s arm comes up involuntarily, weakly batting away the Streak’s hands. The man in red struggles underneath the other’s weight, but between the Streak and Ramon, they manage to carry him inside the lab. As the trio on screen disappears through the doors, Len lets out a shaky breath.

He reveals nothing of his inner turmoil as he asks his team, “Thoughts?”

“Conspiracy island,” Lisa says reverently.

“Super-powered army,” Mick suggests.

Len considers both comments. Either S.T.A.R. Labs is collecting these impossible people for some unknown purpose – or S.T.A.R. Labs is _creating_ these impossible people. If the metal man escaped, only to be hunted like an animal and brought to heel–

Both thoughts are equally terrifying, and either way, these people have Barry. Are they – fuck – are they _using_ him? _Experimenting_ on him? What value does a comatose patient have to these people?

A dark, poisonous corner of Len’s mind whispers – _the perfect victim, he can’t say no._

Best case scenario, S.T.A.R. Labs is building a super-powered army on top of the comatose love of his life. Worst case? Len isn’t quite sure he wants to fully flesh out a worst-case scenario in his mind because as it already stands? This is a nightmare. 

There is a hand on his shoulder. Len glances at the slim fingers, the perfectly painted nails. Lisa gives him a small, reassuring squeeze and asks, “What’s the plan, Lenny?”

“Burn them to ashes,” Mick suggests. “Salt the ground after.”

“An army of the impossible,” Len muses quietly. “A damsel in distress–” 

“Did you seriously just refer to Blue-eyes as ‘a damsel,’ brother dearest?” Lisa asks, bemused.

“Sleeping Beauty,” Mick suggests.

Len twists in his seat to stare at the big man, and the surprised expression on Lisa’s face is priceless. 

Mick shrugs, a small, stilted movement that hints at embarrassment, and says to Len, “You started it.”

Leonard Snart looks at his little sister, standing at the ready beside his partner. The pair of them, eager to accept his orders. There are hundreds – thousands – of criminals in this city. Of all of them, there are precisely two he would trust to cover his back.

They’re standing in front of him right now.

***

Several members of the CCPD arrive on Harrison’s doorstep over the course of the night, taking photos and statements, investigating the mess that Hartley has left him. However, it isn’t until early the next morning that Barry arrives, walking side by side with his adoptive father, Detective West.

When the automatic doors sweep open, revealing the pair, Harrison must suppress a smile at the twin looks of confusion and surprise on their faces.

“Dr. Wells!” Barry exclaims.

“Come in,” Harrison replies with a wave of his hand. To West, he says, “Detective, I apologize for all of this. It really feels like a case of so much for so little.” He spins his wheelchair around, directing it towards his living room as he continues, “The police should _not_ have been called. You see, I got a prank call before all of this happened–”

“This feels like more than just a prank, Doctor,” West replies, scrutinizing the massive damage done to the windows. He turns a very intense look on Harrison, a practiced expression that likely has suspects spilling their guts before they’ve had time to process. It’s a concentrated expression of paternal authority. Not many men can pull it off so smoothly.

In reply, the man known as Harrison Wells offers a helpless shrug and says, “There are those who feel I did not suffer enough for the particle accelerator explosion of last year. Some of them act on it.”

“That’s not–” Barry shakes his head, brow furrowing. “That’s not _fair_.”

 _Saint Barry_ , Harrison thinks with a touch of wonder, looking at the furiously protective expression on Barry’s face. _Defender of Central City, patron of scientists and cripples._

“Dr. Wells!” Cisco calls out, at a half-run as he darts down the hallway. Caitlin is by his side, heels clicking on the tile floor, fast and heavy.

“Dr. Wells,” she says at the same time. “Are you okay?”

“Dr. Snow,” Harrison greets her. “I’m – I’m fine. A little chilly. Otherwise, I’m fine.” He notes Caitlin’s hands are clenched together in front of her, one gripping the other tightly, white with lack of blood as she twists them. He nods a greeting to Cisco and adds, “Hello, Cisco. Make yourselves at home, as best you can. I’m going to – hm. Maybe a hotel reservation?” 

As he directs his wheelchair away from the group, he hears Barry ask, “Hey, what took you guys to long?”

“We got lost,” Caitlin replies, just as he turns the corner.

There is very little to be done but wait as the police tape off the area, though Harrison does catch an unexpected glimpse of his worthless ancestor, Eddie Thawne. Eddie is talking to Detective West, and he catches a whiff of suspicion. Likely they are discussing the extent of the damage, and the fact that he was not injured in the attack.

There is little he can do about their misgivings; at best, he can attribute it to exceptionally good luck.

In the living room, Barry has accessed the speedforce, using his gift to piece together one of the shattered windows with record speed. As Harrison wheels his chair forward to make his presence known, Barry glances up from where he is crouched and says, “There’s no point of impact.”

It is not a question.

“No rock or bat – or any solid object – went through these windows,” Barry continues. “It’s like they just shattered themselves.”

Again, statements, not questions. The man known as Harrison Wells can only smile, genuinely thrilled to watch Barry’s mind at work. To see how much the young man can extrapolate from the evidence he is given.

Barry nibbles his lower lip, glancing up at Harrison - almost demure - from beneath long lashes. Finally, he asks, “This wasn’t some teenage prank, was it?”

Harrison smiles, looking on with pleasure, with pride. He shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t.”

“But–” Barry frowns, tilting his head to the side, considering. “You don’t want our help. Why?”

There is a moment where Harrison considers keeping this information to himself. He discards the thought in between one breath and the next. Hartley is an excellent opponent; there will be no dealing with this situation discretely.

“Because I already know who did this,” Harrison admits. He doesn’t miss the widening of the young man’s eyes, or the slight hitch of breath in his throat. “Hartley Rathaway.”

“Who is he?” Barry asks, brimming with innocent curiosity.

Indulging his flair for the dramatic, the man known as Harrison Wells smiles, a small, tight twist of his mouth. He pictures Hartley’s face in the pipeline, those many months ago. The anger that simmers, furious and dangerous, directed by an incredibly keen mind. And that look of betrayal, when he’d been forcefully ejected from the premises. 

“Hartley Rathaway is the prodigal son,” Harrison admits quietly. “And he has returned.”

***


	32. [2/4] Episode 7: The Cheshire Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readership. Here's the newest chapter. It's a bit longer than the usual, so there's that. Lots of sassy Hartley and some fluff (not related), but no Rogues. I'm sorry! *runs and hides*
> 
> (But Len'll be featured in the next chapter, promise!)

***

The next day finds Team Flash in the cortex, alongside Joe West. Hartley’s image is plastered on the screen overhead, surly and unsmiling. The man known as Harrison Wells is briefly entertained by this. Even the happiest employees tend to wear somber expression for their work Ids, but Hartley – really, if anything, the photo doesn’t do his repressed irritation justice.

Harrison stares at the photograph for a moment. It isn’t quite nostalgia he’s feeling, but there’s – something. It is, perhaps, his own irritation at Hartley’s transition from useful resource to loose end. Or maybe it is the unabashed certainty that his actions a year ago correlate directly to the decisions Hartley is currently making. His betrayal nudged Hartley towards a path of villainy.

A beloved student. A trusted mentor. A warning unheeded. To deny his responsibility in this is to spit in the face of his own origins.

Realizing his internal musings have distracted him from his current purpose, Harrison clears his throat and begins, “Hartley Rathaway possesses one of the finest scientific minds I have ever encountered.” _In this century, at any rate._

“Any ties to Rathaway Industries?” Detective West asks, eyeing the photo curiously.

“His grandfather founded the company,” Harrison acknowledges. “His father expanded it, and Hartley was set to inherit the throne.”

“What happened?” Barry asks. He looks at Hartley’s photo with such intensity, his eyes spark gold. None of the others present notice, or if they do, they likely dismiss it as a trick of the light. It’s unusual, certainly, but it isn’t a sexual interest that Barry displays. Rather, it appears less as though the young man is undressing Hartley, and more like – dissecting him?

Caitlin answers, slim shoulders lifting minutely. “He came out to his parents,” she explains. “Old money, old values.”

Harrison nods. “They were estranged when we met, but – Hartley is brilliant. I couldn’t have built the particle accelerator without him.” _Or rather, I couldn’t have explained how I built as quickly as I did to a series of incredibly nosey investors and contemporary scientists._

Barry nibbles his lip, looking uneasy. His voice does not break, but it is a near thing as he says, “You guys. You’ve never even mentioned his _name_.”

 _Ah_ , Harrison thinks. It seems Barry is – for some inexplicable reason – uncertain of his place at S.T.A.R. Labs. If Hartley is so easily forgotten, than what is to stop the same fate from befalling Barry?

Except, of course, that S.T.A.R. Labs was _created_ with Barry Allen specifically in mind, and that there is nothing in this research facility more valuable. Not that the man known as Harrison Wells can afford to admit any of that aloud, but still. How a specimen like Barry, equal parts physically attractive and mentally intelligent – also, morally righteous, which Harrison cannot decide on a positive or negative stance towards – can think himself in any way _forgettable_ is absurd.

But then, as far as Barry knows, Leonard Snart did just that.

Caitlin is quick to explain as she says, “That’s because Hartley had a – challenging – personality.”

Cisco frowns, staring at Hartley’s photo, expression distant. “What she means is he was mostly a jerk. But, every once in a while... he could be a dick.”

While Detective West is busy choking on his own tongue at Cisco’s deadpan, Harrison continues, “Let’s just say that Hartley, like many outliers, had trouble – relating – to his peers.”

Barry’s expression softens around the edges, and Harrison finds the small knot of tension in his own shoulders lessens in response. Until Caitlin continues, “Yes, but he was always your favorite,” and Barry’s expression tightens again, pinched and unhappy.

“The chosen one,” Cisco adds. Harrison gives him a flat look, willing the young engineer to be silent, but Cisco completely misinterprets the reason for his ire and raises his hands defensively. “Hey, he referred to himself like that.”

Harrison is so focused on studying Barry’s expression that he almost misses Detective West asking, “So, if you two were so close, why would he target you?”

“Hartley left S.T.A.R. Labs about a year ago, after we had a – disagreement,” Harrison replies delicately.

“About what?” West’s face is inscrutible, and he latches on to the subtle implication that Harrison himself may be responsible for Hartley’s behavior like a dog to a bone. He isn’t wrong, of course, but the situation requires a certain degree of damage control. Harrison hesitates.

“Look, don’t worry,” Barry says. “We’ll stop him.” The young man steps forward to stand beside the wheelchair, and the tangle of confusion and anxiety previously visible on his face is temporarily forgotten. He lays his hand on Harrison’s arm, and the spark that jumps between them is familiar, even comforting. His voice is soft. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

Barry looks up, a sharp movement as though he has suddenly remembered there are other people in the room. He continues, “I won’t let him hurt any of you.”

The man known as Harrison Wells shakes his head, his mind running through and discarding nearly one hundred scenarios in a matter of seconds. Finally he says, “Thank you, Barry. But perhaps you should wait to pass judgement after I’ve told you the whole truth.”

The young man’s eyes are trusting as he says, “I’m not going anywhere, Harrison.”

Detective West clears his throat. It’s a harsh, abrupt noise, but Barry doesn’t move away from Harrison’s side. 

The man known as Harrison Wells does not ask Barry if he means those words. He does not ask for promises or declarations. He makes no excuse, offers nothing but the truth – or at least, one version of it. He says, “I have not been honest with you. With–” He does not look at Cisco or Caitlin. He doesn’t have to. “With any of you.”

He takes a breath, visually bracing himself for something unpleasant. This revelation will certainly be perceived as a betrayal of trust, both to the young man currently standing by his side, and the two employees who have remained with him since the beginning. But in the end, it is far better to control the circumstances in which these three are told.

He could leave it until the issue is forced, but Harrison knows Hartley’s tactics intimately. Having played chess with the misguided genius so many times, it’s obvious this will be his opening move. Rather than wait for the attack he already knows is coming, allowing this angle to be so easily exploited, Harrison chooses here and now. Control the revelation, control the fallout.

The man known as Harrison Wells lets out a slow, unsteady breath. It’s quite a convincing act, because Barry gives his arm a small, comforting squeeze. Beneath his skin, the speedforce churns. It feels like the waves of the ocean during a storm. Glorious, intense, wild.

“Hartley warned me that there was a chance the accelerator could explode,” Harrison says in a single breath, expelling the words as though they pain him. Barry’s hand tenses on his arm, hard enough to cause pain. 

Rather than wait for the young man to recoil, Harrison continues, “His data did not show complete certainty, but – there was a risk. And I made the decision that the reward – everything we could learn, everything we could achieve – outweighed that risk.”

With all the practiced sincerity he can manage, voice subdued, he says, “I’m sorry.”

Silence greets his words. The sort of silence that might weigh on a lesser man, press upon him feelings of guilt and shame. But the man known as Harrison Wells is not a lesser man, and this perceived wrongdoing is the least of his sins. And so he waits. He waits for the judgement these people feel they have the right to pass upon him. He waits for Barry to pull away.

Caitlin is the first to speak. Her lips are thin, bloodless. Her color is waxy and pale, and Harrison can guarantee her thoughts are on her late fiancé, Ronnie Raymond. Her voice shakes with quiet rage as she says, “The next time you choose to put our lives, and the lives of the people that we _love_ , at risk – I expect a heads up.” She leaves the room, her heels clicking on the floor, steady for all that she is surely trembling inside.

Cisco glances at Harrison once. The expression on his face speak volumes, though he says nothing aloud. He follows Caitlin from the room, jogging to catch up.

Detective West shakes his head. “I can see why you might not have wanted to explain that ‘disagreement’ you had with Rathaway,” he says dryly. “But it’s pretty clear why he’s targeting you. Did he leave his position here of his own volition? Or did you have him escorted from the property?”

“Escorted,” Harrison replies shortly. “I am not – proud – of my actions, Detective. At the time, I felt that every great scientific discovery was prefaced with a proverbial roll of the dice. My research was flawless, and I felt that I was – invincible.” He flicks his hand in the direction of his legs and says, “I have since learned otherwise.”

“You’re only human,” West says thoughtfully, though the words are not meant to be a comfort. The good detective shakes his head and says, “Look, I’ve got to get back to the precinct. Baer, call me if you find out anything else.”

West leaves, and it comes down to Barry Allen, as it always has. As it always will. Barry Allen, whose hand is still warm, even through the fabric of his shirt. Harrison stares at those fingers, tangled loosely in his sleeve. 

This is only the first of many betrayals, and it comes neatly packaged with all the right, selfishly human reasons. The man known as Harrison Wells believed – strongly and without question – that no one would stand by his side after this confession. It wouldn’t matter – it doesn’t matter – it changes nothing.

Barry Allen has not pulled away from him. Barry Allen is choosing to stand by his side.

At that realization, something in Harrison’s chest tightens and loosens in quick succession. It is such a strange, unreal moment, and Harrison allows his eyes to lift from where the young man’s hand rests on his arm. His gaze traces a path from wrist to elbow, following the defined lines of sleek, hard muscle up past Barry’s shoulder. Barry’s neck, unmarked, smooth, and the skittish beat of his pulse, so strong it can be seen with the naked eye. He does not linger there, instead he chooses to meet Barry’s eyes. 

Blue eyes, bright, expressive, open. Brow furrowed, lips pulled down. “After the explosion,” Barry says without hesitation, “when everyone else left you, Caitlin and Cisco stood by you. You owe them more than an apology.”

Harrison finds he cannot collect the strength of will it takes for intricate deception, because Barry is standing by his side. Barry has not moved. He says, “With Hartley so intent on sending me to the next world, they might get that sooner rather than later.” It is a thoughtless comment, but it’s all he can muster.

Barry’s voice is like a whip as he lashes out. “That wouldn’t make anything right with them!”

As he raises his voice, Barry’s warm hand finally pulls away. In that moment the man known as Harrison Wells feels – relief. The world begins to make sense once more.

Or rather, it makes sense for about two seconds, because that’s the amount of time it takes for Barry to kneel in front of Harrison’s wheelchair. The young man takes both of Harrison’s hands in his own and in an unprecedented gesture, turns them palm up and presses a single kiss to each of them. Barry’s lips are warm, like his hands, and a distant corner of Harrison’s mind acknowledges this is because of his constant, molecular regeneration. Speedsters run hot; it’s a natural fact.

Barry’s eyes are earnest. His voice is full of certainty. He says, “You broke their trust. My trust. You need to make that right.” Then he smiles. “And I’m pretty sure a really smart guy once told me: you can’t fix anything if you’re dead.”

The man known as Harrison Wells opens his mouth. No sound comes out, and rather than look like a complete fool, he shuts it. His teeth click with the movement. 

Barry leans forward into his personal space, knees on the ground, arms braced on the sides of Harrison’s wheelchair. There is no distance between them, only the heat of their bodies radiating through the clothing they wear. Barry’s mouth is warm and demanding and there is a curl of sexual desire in Harrison’s gut, but it is tempered with a peculiar tenderness. 

When Barry pulls back from the kiss, his face is bright, vibrant red, nearly the same shade as his suit. The young man’s eyes search Harrison’s face intently. Apparently satisfied with what he reads in Harrison’s expression, he smiles and repeats, “I’m not going anywhere, Harrison.”

Then, as if the world didn’t just shudder to a violent, unexpected stop, Barry stands. He inclines his head towards the computers and says, “Did you want to join me? I was going to run through some theoretical scenarios on how Hartley broke your windows.” He steps towards the desks, his hands running through a series of animated gestures as he continues, “See, I think that Hartley is using some kind of sonic technology–”

Harrison’s brain provides the information without conscious thought. “–utilizing technology to match the pitch of the natural vibration frequency to destroy it.”

“Exactly!” Barry grins. He takes another step towards the computer.

In this time and place, the man known as Harrison Wells is faster than the Flash. Leeching speedforce from Barry as he generates it, turning it into accessible energy through the use of the special converter hidden in his wheelchair. Right here, right now, Barry Allen cannot catch him.

 _I am faster than you_ , he thinks, haunted. _So why is it still this, that you will lead, and I am the one who must follow?_

***

A few hours later, an alarm sounds overhead and Cisco calls out using the com-system, “Multiple 911 calls, guys! Rathaway Industries is under attack!”

Barry is in his suit in an instant. He taps his headset and responds, “On my way.”

“Be careful,” Harrison says. It’s disconcerting; the words form on his lips without thought.

Barry grins, pulling his cowl down to cover his face. “Always!” He disappears, the telltale flutter of papers around the room a subtle symphony to his departure.

Cisco and Caitlin shuffle into the cortex a moment later. Neither of them looks at Harrison as they take their positions, monitoring police frequencies and Barry’s vitals with practiced ease. It’s a far cry from their attitudes just yesterday, but – it’s expected. Their actions are predictable.

(In a dark, quiet corner of his mind, Eobard Thawne points out that the Flash of the future was also predictable. It is only in this time that this – his – Barry is the exception, not the rule.)

“It’s over,” Barry’s voice states over the com-link, vibrating as it always does to protect his identity. It’s a rather preemptive statement, considering that no blows have been exchanged.

“Oh, that’s a neat trick. Vibrating your vocal cords?” Hartley sounds genuinely fascinated. “The fun I could have! I’d ask if you’re single, but seeing as I’m planning to kill you, that might put a damper on our relationship.”

“I’m all for witty banter,” Barry quips, “But did you want to flirt, or are we going to dance, Rathaway?”

“You already know my name,” Hartley replies, self-satisfied and outwardly pleased in equal parts. “I know some names, too.” There is an underlying heaviness to his tone. The significance becomes apparent as he lists, “Caitlin Snow. Cisco Ramon. Harrison Wells.”

 _Oh, Hartley_ , Harrison thinks. _Clever Hartley._ Beside him, Cisco and Caitlin freeze. There is confusion on Cisco’s face and a hint of fear on Caitlin’s. The surprise and worry that shoot through the pair is enough to cause them to forget their anger, at least temporarily, because Cisco looks at him and asks, “How the hell does he know about us? I mean, it’s not like we advertise!”

“I can hear the radio waves emanating from your suit. About 1900 megahertz?” Hartley continues, smug, “Is that them on the other end, listening?”

The man known as Harrison Wells finds himself scrutinizing that seemingly innocuous statement. It is possible that Hartley is a metahuman whose gifts lean towards sound and vibration, but it’s equally possible that Hartley has created technology to grant him those same abilities. The young man is certainly gifted enough.

As Barry and Hartley fight, Caitlin leans forward, putting her hand to her forehead. Cisco leans into her space, bumping his shoulder lightly against her arm. “You okay?” he asks softly.

Caitlin bites her lip, shakes her head helplessly.

Cisco looks to Harrison again, this time for reassurance.

“Barry will capture Hartley, I’m sure,” Harrison replies. “And as for how he was able to identify us, I imagine we’ll have the opportunity to ask him.” It’s an artful assurance, a double-edged blade. Hartley Rathaway may know their names and their connection to the Flash, but once he has been confined to the pipeline, there is no one with whom he can share that information.

“Looks like you’re not as smart as everyone says,” Barry quips, signaling the end of the fight.

“Smart enough to have figured out who Harrison Wells really is,” Hartley replies cryptically. He singsongs, “You see, I know his secret~”

“Yeah?” Barry replies, unimpressed. “So do I. Shut up.”

***

The man known as Harrison Wells chooses to observe. He sits in front of the computer in the cortex, watching events unfold on the monitor. Cisco and Caitlin go to greet Barry, still dressed as the Flash, their newest pipeline prisoner in tow. There are several cameras in the hallway, affording him a complete visual of the scene. Though the security cameras do not contain microphones, he is able to listen in by repurposing a nearby com-link button, reversing its polarity to receive audio data.

Hartley Rathaway stalks forward as though he is a predator, brimming with vitriol, spiting poisonous words and biting sarcasm. His hands are cuffed together in front of him and he’s smirking as he says, “Being scooped up by a guy clad in head-to-toe leather is a long-time fantasy of mine, so thanks for that.”

The Flash presses his palm against Hartley’s back, pushing him forward, a halfhearted nudge to keep him moving. In his other hand, he has what appears to be a pair of electronic gauntlets; they glow sickly, neon green, some sort of internal power source. 

Cisco and Caitlin approach, side by side, a united front. Barry and Hartley slow to a halt, and Cisco stares are Hartley, quirking his eyebrow. He remarks, “You talk way more shit than I remember.”

“Oh!” Hartley grins, a vicious expression. He sounds pleased. “The gang’s all here, then? Hello, Cisco. Caitlin.” The young genius makes an exaggerated show of looking around, then pouts, “But someone’s missing, it seems. Where _is_ your esteemed leader?”

“Dr. Wells isn’t your concern, Hartley,” Caitlin says primly in reply.

Barry continues, voice distorted with vibration as he says, “You know, you seem awfully interested in Harrison Wells, Rathaway. Got something on your mind?”

Hartley’s reply is instant, spiteful as he snaps, “I’m a _genius_. More thoughts cross my mind in five minutes than _you’d_ end up thinking in a full day, simpleton. After all, you’re just Harrison Wells’ pet monkey, aren’t you? Performing feats of heroism on command.”

There is a moment where the man known as Harrison Wells digests this statement. It is followed, briefly, by the intense, irrational desire to introduce Hartley Rathaway to Grodd, if only to see if the young man will continue to issue those same insults so glibly.

Cisco steps forward, chin jutting up, defiant. He is quick to defend Barry. “His name is the _Flash_. Not simpleton, or pet monkey, or any other bit of nasty you might come up with.”

Hartley’s eyes narrow and he sneers, “Nasty, Cisco? Really? Because I’m quite good with names. In fact, I was thinking of calling myself the Pied Piper.”

“Hey!” Cisco points his finger at the other man and shakes it once, agitated. “I assign the nicknames around here!” He pauses, then admits grudgingly, “Although that one’s not bad.”

“Oh, before I forget,” Barry says. He tosses Hartley’s electronic gloves to Cisco, who nearly fumbles them before managing to clutch them to his chest. 

Hartley makes an aborted sound – a choked protest – and snarls, “Be careful with those!” He takes a threatening step towards Cisco, only to be jerked back by Barry. The Flash grips a fistful of Hartley’s shirt in his hand and pulls it violently, reigning him in. The crude movement is likely fueled by Barry’s fear for Cisco.

The action seems to snap Hartley back to himself because he glances over his shoulder at Barry and grins nastily. “All that leather,” he coos, “I should have know. Did you want to play rough, Fifty Shades of Red?”

Caitlin blushes at the crude implication, though Barry only snorts and shakes his head. If his eyes were clearly visible, Harrison is quite certain the young man would be rolling them.

As Barry directs Hartley forward, Harrison leans into the microphone, clicking on the overhead com-link. “Mr. Ramon, Dr. Snow–” He hesitates, imperceptible. “–Flash. I think, perhaps, a visit to the cortex is in order before you take him to the pipeline.”

Cisco blinks, surprised, and tilts his head to the side. He looks directly into the lens of the nearest security camera and asks, “Are you sure that’s necessary, Dr. Wells?”

“Oh, I’m quite certain,” Harrison replies, watching Hartley closely. The young genius is frozen, completely still. He no longer looks like a predator – instead, with the stutter of his breath, the wariness in his eyes, the snarl on his lips – his body language clearly shows him to be prey. “In fact, I’m afraid I must insist.”

Because the man known as Harrison Wells is not stupid. The moment Hartley stepped into the elevator of S.T.A.R. Labs, Harrison has been running a subtle series of non-intrusive scans, searching for anything out of the ordinary. One such scan reveals a pair of foreign metal objects, tucked deep within the recesses of the young man’s ears canal. Coupled with Hartley’s reckless behavior, the conflicting body language that says he is completely unconcerned with his current position as a captive, well– 

As a chess player and a genius, Harrison is adept at predicting the actions of those around him, both rational and irrational. And while it may seem that Hartley is acting in a strange and irrational manner, Harrison can only conclude that the young man has a very clever, very rational plan tucked up his sleeve.

Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say – in his ear.

Harrison completes his study of the data his computers have recovered, the scan of the devices in Hartley’s ears; he does this while simultaneously watching his team’s conversation on the monitor. From this preliminary examination, he draws two conclusions. 

First, Hartley has suffered some major head trauma recently, and the effect on his hearing is – extensive – to say the least. Either that or during the explosion of the particle accelerator, Hartley’s ear canals completely rewrote themselves, and this reworking of his biology has gifted him with superhuman hearing, so extreme he is even able to distinguish radio waves without relying on technology. Of course, all gifts have their drawbacks, and Harrison hazards a guess – without the devices in his ears, Hartley’s hearing is likely so sensitive that even a whisper of sound is capable of causing him crippling agony.

It’s fascinating, really. Something for Caitlin to study, at any rate.

And second? Hartley’s little “hearing aids” serve a far more sinister purpose. It’s no wonder the young genius is confident of his ability to break out of whatever cell they choose to lock him in – who wouldn’t be, with the equivalent of a quarter pound of C-4, tucked securely away in each ear.

The man known as Harrison Wells pulls out his phone and fires a quick text to Cisco. He tucks his phone back into his pocket just before the group arrives, marching through the open doorway in single file, a somber parade on their way to the execution block.

“Well, well, well,” Hartley says, eyes narrow, taking in the wheelchair. “Hello, Dr. Wells.”

Harrison offers a curt greeting. “Hartley.”

There is a tiny vibration from Cisco’s pocket. The young engineer pulls the phone out, glances at the text. The words there cause him to stop dead in his tracks, and his surprise is almost painful in its transparency. Thankfully, Hartley is entirely too focused on watching Harrison to notice.

Cisco glances at Harrison, bites his lip nervously. He takes a breath to steady his nerves, then nods once, understanding and acknowledgement. He grabs Caitlin’s hand and tugs her quickly out of the room, raising a finger to his lips to insure her silence.

Barry glances at them sideways as they go, but Harrison offers a silent supplication of gratitude because the young man exercises a rare, unprecedented showing of discretion. Barry says nothing to draw Hartley’s attention to the pair as they exit, clearly realizing that something else is going on.

“Go ahead,” Hartley says, his eyes touched by manic glee, never leaving Harrison’s face. His lips curl back, baring his teeth, the parody of a smile. “Ask me. I’m sure you’re just _dying_ to know.”

Harrison is quite content with Hartley’s evident obsession; it keeps the young man’s attention focused solely on him and allows his team time to work. He tilts his head, angling for curiosity, then asks, “How did you know we were working with the Flash?”

“I wrote a hexagonal algorithm to track his sightings,” Hartley replies, still grinning. He twists his wrists, but the handcuffs do not falter. Barry remains by his side, ready to restrain him if necessary. “Extrapolated a theoretical exit trajectory.”

Here, Hartley twists around, pinning Barry with a condescending stare. “In other words, simpleton, every time you ran from the scene of a crime, you ran in this direction. How does it feel, knowing that _you_ are the reason these people are in danger?”

“In danger from who? You?” Barry asks, still vibrating his voice to protect his identity, but his tone borders on condescending. “In case you failed to notice, you’ve been captured.”

Before Hartley can spit out a venomous reply, Harrison directs his wheelchair forward, attracting the attention of both young men. He meets Hartley’s gaze evenly and says, “There are a handful of people who would have been able to put that together. As always, Hartley, you are brilliant.” He pauses, snorts softly. “But you already know that.”

“What you don’t – or rather, can’t – know, is how sorry I am for the anguish you have been through. Your pain, your suffering. These things were not my intent.” The man known as Harrison Wells dwells briefly on his actual intent – which will invariably end in the complete destruction of this timeline – and does not smile.

Hartley shakes his head, sharp and furious. He giggles, seemingly unhinged, but his eyes are keen, intelligent. It’s a good act – but the man known as Harrison Wells has lived a far better one for far longer.

“Not bad, as far as heartfelt apologies go,” Hartley says. “Except that wasn’t for my benefit, now was it?” Without looking away from Harrison, the young man jerks his head, chin jutting out to indicate where the Flash stands, a silent sentry. “That was for him.”

Hartley spins on his heel, taking a single step towards Barry. He is so very angry, shivering with barely repressed emotion, a vessel of rage condensed into human form. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he spits, pale and shaking. “To have the great Harrison Wells behind you. But one day this man will turn on you, and you won’t even see it coming.”

 _Hartley Rathaway_ , Harrison muses. _Such a dangerously clever boy. To stumble upon the truth amidst the lies, correct in his assessments for all the wrong reasons._

“I can only hope he leaves you in better shape than he left me. If you’re lucky, you’ll only be dead,” Hartley continues, taking another step. Barry does not back down. He stands, unbowed. His righteous belief is a terrible, tangible thing, and Hartley must feel it as well because his words turn almost desperate. “You’re fast, aren’t you? Run now, while you can.”

“Your concern is touching,” Barry replies at last, tone dry.

Hartley snaps, “Do you think this is a joke? What do you really know about the man you’re putting your faith in? Has he let you peek into the deep, dark abyss of his conscience yet? Has he revealed the hidden skeletons in his closet?”

“You mean like how you warned him the accelerator might explode and he went and turned it on anyway?” Barry asks, almost kindly.

There is a pause where Hartley stares at Barry, a crease of confusion on his forehead, lips parted in shock.

“Oh,” Barry tilts his head to the side. “Did I just kill your moment? Sorry.”

“How can you just dismiss–” Hartley’s voice breaks, pitch rising so quickly.

“Because he’s a human being,” Barry replies as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “He screws up, just like the rest of us. And yeah, his mistake cost a lot of people – in fact, everyone I know lost something that night. And you – I bet you must have been devastated, to have a man you looked up to treat you like that.” Barry shakes his head. “I’m not excusing his actions, but – no matter how high a pedestal you might have placed him on, no matter how deep his betrayal cut you – you’re a human being, too. And you don’t have the right to play his judge, jury, and executioner, Rathaway.”

The man known as Harrison Wells can only watch, riveted, as Hartley stares at the impossibly charismatic force of nature that is Barry Allen – and loses. The young genius turns away first with a huff, and says nothing.

Cisco and Caitlin return to the cortex at that exact moment. Caitlin is wearing a pair of latex gloves, and Cisco has a bulky, oversized pair of headphones wrapped around his neck like a collar. Noticing Hartley’s obvious distraction, Cisco says, “Hey, um, Flash? Grab him!”

Barry cocks his head to the side, but he doesn’t hesitate to trust in his team. He darts forward in an instant, grabbing Hartley from behind, wrapping his arms around the smaller man in the parody of a bear hug.

“What the hell are you–?” Hartley squawks, indignant.

Instead of offering an explanation, Cisco and Caitlin share a look. Cisco nods and Caitlin swallows once, nervously. The pair move quickly, positioning themselves next to Hartley. Caitlin says, “Keep his head still,” and Cisco does, reaching up to cradle Hartley’s face between his palms, minimizing the other man’s movements as best he can.

Caitlin reaches her slender, gloved fingers into Hartley’s ear and plucks out a tiny, metal contraption, tugging the adjoining metal thread out carefully so as not to cause any damage.

The reaction is instant. Hartley screams. It’s a piercing sound, agonized, and it speaks of torture, of excruciating pain. Caitlin jerks away, startled, even as Hartley struggles desperately against the hold the Flash has him in.

“Get the other one!” Cisco says, and Caitlin visibly collects herself and follows his directive. The process of removing both devices takes approximately a minute and a half, but the screaming makes it seem infinitely longer. As soon as Caitlin has the second device out of Hartley’s ears, Cisco releases the young genius’ face. He pulls the plush set of headphones off from around his neck and slaps them onto Hartley’s head, completely covering both ears.

As abruptly as it starts, the screaming stops.

Hartley goes limp in Barry’s arms, panting heavily. Bewildered, he lifts his head to stare at Harrison, who offers a tiny half-smile and a small shrug of his shoulders.

The plan was simple enough. First, a text to Cisco, informing him of Hartley’s dangerous “hearing aids.” Also, instructions to alter a set of headphones to completely block out all sound. Second, a distracting chat with Hartley to allow Cisco the time needed to put together the headphones and study the preliminary scans of the device to make sure Caitlin had a clear idea of how to safely remove them. Last, a bit of luck, coupled with failing to alert Barry of the specifics of this plan. They could not afford to let Hartley know they were aware of his technology, or that they were taking steps to neutralize it.

Presently, Hartley cannot hear anything. The headphones are a temporary solution, but the man known as Harrison Wells is confident Cisco can create a device similar to the one Hartley himself constructed – simply without the capacity to explode.

And so, when Harrison has Hartley’s full attention, he smiles – a small, tight smile – and shrugs – the casual rise and fall of one shoulder. He speaks, slow and clear, so that Hartley will have no trouble reading his lips: “Check mate.”

Hartley looks small and lost in that moment. Defeated again. Really, the young man should know better – it isn’t as though he’s ever beaten Harrison at a game of chess.

In reply to Barry’s confused expression, the man known as Harrison Wells continues, “Now that everything is settled, you can take him down to the pipeline. After he’s secure, I’ll be more than happy to explain what the hell just happened.”

Barry glances at Cisco and Caitlin. Cisco looks worn, his expression pinched. Caitlin’s expression is muted, and she deposits Hartley’s devices into a nearby petri dish. Hartley, still limp in Barry’s arms, is dejected. His head, half-covered by those ridiculous headphones, hangs low. 

Barry looks to where Harrison sits in his wheelchair, and then the young man smiles. Even in the ambiguous atmosphere that currently surrounds them, Barry’s expression is like the sun. Bright, warm. 

“No worries,” Barry agrees with casual ease. “I trust you.”

***


	33. [3/4] Episode 7: The Three Musketeers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for those who do not know, this story is now part of a series called “When Lightning Strikes.” The next story in this series is called “B-sides and Parallels,” which is basically going to be my dumping grounds for ficlets that are a part of this universe. The first (and thus far only) story up is a Barry POV that throws all the way back to chapter 8, when Barry first woke from his coma.

***

The sinking feeling in Len’s gut is becoming a disturbingly normal occurrence. It strikes him now, as he stares at the monitor of his laptop, at the video footage that streams from one of his many hidden cameras surrounding S.T.A.R. Labs. He swallows back the nausea, the sickness that threatens to overwhelm him, and looks to where Lisa is sprawled on the hotel bed.

His little sister is stretched out on her stomach, kicking her feet in the air, a mindless motion, like a pair of scissors endlessly opening and closing. Her eyes are focused on the television – the evening news – and she chews a bright, pink piece of gum, blowing bubbles absently.

Leonard Snart feels a brief surge of irritation – gum is not meant to be chewed in bed. If that pink, nasty mess ends up glued to the comforter, there will be an epic battle, potentially involving fire, ice, and Lisa’s precious hair.

Lisa rolls her shoulders, as if she can feel the weight of his attention, and glances away from the television to meet his unwavering stare. She tilts her head to the side and says, “What’s wrong, Lenny?”

Pointedly ignoring her question, Len replies with one of his own: “Where’s Mick?”

“Following up a lead on that ‘burning man,’” Lisa replies, blowing a bubble with her gum and popping it noisily. “You know, if the guy really does exist, and Mick ever actually meets him, I’m not sure if he’s going to try and recruit him or hump his leg.”

The mental visual is inevitable. Len shakes his head and snorts, “Thanks for that.”

“Welcome!” his little sister says brightly.

Len turns his head back to the computer, staring at the image he has frozen on the screen. He instructs, “Get ahold of him, will you? We’re hitting S.T.A.R. Labs tonight.”

There is a rustle of cloth. Though Len isn’t looking, he knows Lisa has just flipped from her stomach to her back, sitting up on the bed in a singular, abrupt movement. “What the hell? I thought you wanted to hit them in a couple of weeks, Lenny! Aren’t you still scoping the place out?”

“Plans change, sis. S.T.A.R. Labs is bad news.” Len stares at the blur of the impossible man in red, recorded just yesterday, then examines the humanoid shape that is slung over the man’s shoulder. How long have these people been kidnapping impossible humans, and to what sinister end? He continues, “Tonight, we’re going in loud, aiming for distraction.”

Len can actually hear the perplexed frown in her voice as she asks, “Distraction...? But why?”

The sickness in his stomach becomes muted, overshadowed by slow, burning anger. “I don’t know what they’re up to, Lisa. But for whatever reason, they’re collecting human beings like bugs in a jar. Barry isn’t as safe there as I originally believed – so we’re taking him out.”

“Isn’t Detective Dad gonna’ have something to say about that?” Lisa asks. Her thoughtful tone reflects contemplation rather than outright condemnation. 

“Probably,” Len agrees. “But he’s either a dirty cop – in on the action and willing to overlook it for a cut of the profit – or he’s unaware of what’s going on in that building, which makes him incompetent, so he can’t be trusted with Barry’s safety. It doesn’t change the end result.”

Lisa blows another bubble, pops it. She says, “You thought about how we’re going to provide Blue-eyes the kind of care he probably needs?”

“Of course,” Len replies, matter of fact. “We’re taking Barry’s doctor, Snow, as well. And if the Streak shows up to stop us, well – he’ll be expecting me. He won’t be expecting Mick, and he certainly won’t be expecting _you_.”

“The Flash,” Lisa corrects.

“What?”

“He’s called the Flash now. Here, look.” Lisa hops off the bed to stand beside him. She pulls her cell phone out of her back pocket, opening an internet app, and quickly navigates to what looks like an rather popular blog.

“See,” Lisa says, zooming in on the text. “This chick has been following sightings of your impossible man for a while now, but the site didn’t really take off until she coined his new name–”

“The Flash,” Len repeats, rolling the word on his tongue. It’s a good name, fitting for the man’s ability, but the title doesn’t carry any inherent indicators of supervillainy. Still, it’s a vast improvement from “The Streak.”

“It looks like this girl’s branching out,” Lisa adds, scanning over the newest article. “She’s even got some preliminary reports up here on Mick’s ‘burning man.’ Maybe we should pay her a visit, see if she knows more than she’s telling?”

“This girl have a name?” Len asks.

Lisa’s eyes flicker up to the top of the article. She replies, “Iris West.”

Leonard Snart closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. The sick feeling in his stomach returns at once, churning and roiling, revolting.

His little sister instantly picks up on his mood. She turns the phone’s screen off, tucking the device into her back pocket as she asks, “You know her or something, Lenny?”

“Barry’s foster-sister,” Len replies shortly. He sighs, opens his eyes to meet his sister’s gaze.

“Seriously?” Lisa’s eyes go almost comically wide. “Conspiracy Island. For reals.”

“There is no island, Lisa,” Len points out, tone both reasonable and irritated.

Lisa frowns, then compromises, “Conspiracy Labs.” She purses her lips, nods once decisively. “For _reals_.”

Len doesn’t bother to dignify the comment with a response. Instead he says, “When you call Mick, tell him to have a couple of his boys keep an eye on Ms. West. Nothing obvious – I don’t want either her or her father to catch wind of it. I know she was studying to be a reporter, so let’s see where she stands. Is she allied with the Flash – or is she just following the ‘scoop?’”

“Okay, brother mine,” Lisa easily agrees. “What do you want me to tell Mick about S.T.A.R. Labs, though?”

With a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, Len replies, “Tell him we’re storming the castle tonight, and I needed him back here ten minutes ago.”

Lisa pulls the phone from her pocket again, a smooth movement, and dials Mick’s number from memory. She wanders into the kitchenette, likely seeking a cold beer, and taking the faint sound of the dial tone with her.

“–earlier today. Dr. Harrison Wells, founder of the now-infamous S.T.A.R. Laboratories, stunned onlookers during an unexpected press conference in the heart of Central City’s own police department. He admitted to the following:”

Leonard Snart instantly focuses his complete and total attention on the news program Lisa was watching earlier. On the screen, the scene cuts to an image focusing exclusively on a dark-haired man, with large, black-framed glasses that dance the fine line between nerdy and stylish. The top of Wells’ wheelchair is just barely visible in the camera shot, and the man leans forward to speak clearly into a microphone that’s been set to accommodate his diminutive height.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Wells says. He does not offer any jokes to ease the mounting tension in the room. Rather, it looks as though he has fully embraced his role as social pariah and villain, and he forges ahead without fanfare. “For those of you who read the ten-volume report issued by the Norris Commission, I commend your tenacity. You already know, then, the circumstances that lead to the explosion of the S.T.A.R. Labs particle accelerator. Or rather, you think you do.”

There is some hushed murmuring from off screen, the shuffle of uncertainty in the footsteps of the reporters who are no doubt gathered to listen.

“The Commission’s finding was that the catastrophe was caused by a chain of events that nobody could have predicted, myself included. The truth is, I was warned there was a chance the accelerator might fail. I was warned by a former colleague – a friend.”

“I chose to ignore that warning. As a new friend pointed out–” Here, Wells pauses, glancing somewhere off screen, presumably to acknowledge this friend. He continues, “In doing so, I failed all of you. I failed this city, and I failed the people who trusted me most. I realize I have much to make up for, and while my word is worth very little these days, by coming forward now, it’s my hope that I’m taking the first step towards regaining that trust.”

“No questions, and I thank you for your time.” Harrison Wells maneuvers his wheelchair off the impromptu stage, even as the room explodes with shouted questions from inquisitive reporters. The man ignores all of them, and the clip on the screen fades out and is replaced by a handful of news reporters gathered around a table, hotly debating Wells’ controversial and unexpected confession.

Leonard Snart stares at the television screen blankly, his thoughts racing. This new information doesn’t change his plans for tonight, but it certainly gives him more information to consider. There is no reason for Wells to offer up his televised revelation at this time, and the good doctor has never stuck Len as particularly altruistic. Perhaps someone discovered the man’s duplicity and threatened to blackmail him? Such a public confession would be an ideal counter to any threat of that nature.

But what Len finds most interesting about this interview is not the words spoken. Rather, the look on Wells’ face when he briefly paused in his speech and sought out the silent approval of his “new friend.” Harrison Wells’ expression is usually closed off, and Len finds him very difficult to read. In that moment though, looking off screen, the good doctor’s expression softens around the edges, to a previously unheard of degree.

Len can only conclude, based on this expression, that Harrison Wells is in love. Assuming Len can discover who this mystery woman is – though really, there is only one woman in the good doctor’s life, and Len was planning on kidnapping her anyway – it’s an avenue of exploitation previously unavailable to him.

Leonard Snart will seize any and every opportunity. He will take those afforded to him, and all the rest? He’ll steal.

***

In the wake of his press conference, the man known as Harrison Wells has noticed that both Cisco and Caitlin seem to step a little easier around him. It will take some time to fully regain their regard, but a public airing of his sins seems to have firmly placed him back into their good graces. It’s highly likely that yesterday’s encounter with Hartley helped as well, bolstering the useful mentality of “us-against-him.”

From down the hall, Cisco calls out, “Dr. Wells!”

Harrison slows his wheelchair in the hallway, coming to a complete stop and allowing the other man to catch up with him. The young engineer has a pair of metal studs clutched in one hand, similar to the set pulled from Hartley Rathaway’s ears the day before.

“Dr. Wells!” Cisco repeats, nearly stuttering in his ecstatic haste. “Sorry, sorry. I just wanted to let you know!”

“That you redesigned and synthesized a pair of Hartley’s unique hearing aids in record time?” Harrison hazards, cocking his head to the side with a small, wry smile. “Hopefully these are less – combustible – than the originals?”

“Huh?” Cisco blinks, looking down at his own hands. He seems to realize what he’s holding, because he jerks his head up, nods quickly. He reaches forward, clutches at Harrison’s arm with his free hand, nearly vibrating with his excitement. “Oh, um, yeah. Yeah, I was going to run them down to the pipeline and drop them off to Hartley myself – but no, Dr. Wells – I found Bette!”

The man known as Harrison Wells raises a brow. “Bette Sans Souci? Kidnapped and spirited away by the loathsome General Eiling? The metahuman for whom you’ve spent nearly two weeks scouring the entire continent?”

Cisco rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a dick, Harry.”

Harrison blinks, momentarily stunned. Cisco has never, ever referred to him as anything but “Dr. Wells.” Not only that, but the young man knows his preferred manner of address is the distinguished “Harrison,” absolutely never to be shortened to “Harry” of all things. On top of that, the flagrant disrespect–

It’s at least a consolation that Cisco looks completely appalled at the words that have just crossed his lips. The young man’s eyes go wide, completely mortified, and he releases Harrison’s arm to slap his hand over his open mouth.

“Omigod,” Cisco mumbles through his fingers. “I am so, so sorry. Dr. Wells, I seriously don’t know what just came over me.”

The man known as Harrison Wells waves his hand dismissively. “You’re forgiven, though as both your boss – and hopefully, your friend – I’d like to think I warrant a little more respect than that,” he says mildly. “Now, you were saying about Ms. Sans Souci?”

Eager to put the incident behind him, Cisco nods vigorously and explains. “I wrote a program a little while back, searching through all military frequencies for certain keywords involving Bette. Descriptions of her appearance, scientific terms involving her altered biology, possible codenames Eiling might have used if he was planning on weaponizing her. I got a couple of hits – a word here and there, nothing conclusive–”

“Until today,” Harrison postulates.

“Until today,” Cisco nods. “I altered the program to cross-reference those keywords, and I finally got a hit with a high probability. There’s a research facility hours away, on an island off the coast – and Barry figured since he could defy gravity going up the sides of buildings, he’d give running on water a shot. He just left a few minutes ago, he’s on his way there now–”

“What?” Harrison spins his wheelchair as quickly as he can, directing it to the cortex. “General Eiling is not a smart man, but he has the propensity to be exceptionally crafty. This could be a trap–”

“We know. I mean, Barry already suggested it.” Cisco keeps pace alongside Harrison’s wheelchair. “Caitlin took my car, because it’s faster – she’s following him out there right now. This is the first time Barry’s traveled such a distance – and we know if something goes wrong, he won’t be able to get back to us instantly. That’s why I wanted to let you know – you can monitor Barry’s vitals here through the cortex, and you can reach Caitlin on her cell phone.”

The man known as Harrison Wells frowns. The situation is less than ideal. Still, Barry has been taking fewer chances since their – talk – a few weeks ago, and if he’s aware he may be walking into a trap, Harrison can only hope he will take appropriate precautions. Between Caitlin and Cisco, Caitlin is the best choice to “follow” Barry by car, because if the need for medical care arises, Caitlin should be fully equipped to give it. Assuming–

“Dr. Snow brought a full medical kit with her?” Harrison asks absently.

“Absolutely. Plus a tank of oxygen and a set of portable defibrillators,” Cisco replies, his manner reminiscent of a school student reporting his progress to an overbearing parent.

Harrison shakes his head, sighing, “As Barry is already running – and I imagine will be for a while longer – there’s no stopping this venture. In future, I would truly appreciate a consult for an undertaking of such a serious nature, but I suppose there’s no helping it this time.”

He glances over as Cisco’s one hand, still clutching Hartley’s high-tech, replacement earplugs. “Drop those off to Mr. Rathaway, if you wouldn’t mind, and meet me in the cortex. If I must partake in this endeavor, I refuse to do so alone.”

Cisco grins, relieved. He has the audacity to say, “Hey, I worry about him too, Dr. Wells. But Barry knows the stakes. Bette’s life might be on the line; he’ll be extra careful.”

“Sometimes careful isn’t enough,” Harrison replies, a touch morose, thinking of Barry’s lips. “Sometimes, no matter how masterfully we think we’ve planned things, there is a spanner in the gears that we never see coming.”

***

“All good?” Mick says, standing beside Len, knees bent slightly as he braces one hand against a nearby wall. The other touches his flamegun, reassuring, holstered comfortably on his hip.

“All good,” Len replies. He hikes the rocket launcher a bit higher on his shoulder, taking careful aim, and pulls the trigger. 

***


	34. [4/4] Episode 7: Cat and Mouse (in Partnership)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readers! So, two things:  
> 1) I am really, really sorry this took so long to get out. Some of the dialogue was giving me problems, and it's kind of an important point in the story so I didn't want to just wing it.  
> 2) For the people who didn't see it, chapter 2 of B-sides is out, and it's actually a companion piece to this chapter, sort of.  
> 

***

Side by side, Leonard Snart and Mick Rory make their way through the building, checking each room as they go with swift and practiced efficiency. The hallways are silent, save for their combined footfall. They keep an eye out for the Flash, for Harrison Wells, for Caitlin Snow. Len’s heart skips a beat with every room they clear, because – well, because of Barry.

Strangely, it is the silence that bothers Len most. He acknowledges that he has long envisioned this place as a hospital, or at least something like it. He knows this isn’t the case, but it has been the mental picture he’s had for as long as Barry has been a resident here. Hospitals means white noise in the background: beeping monitors, machines tied to oxygen and life-support, IV drips. Hospitals mean people – doctors and nurses and orderlies. 

This place is not a hospital. Len knows that.

But knowing does nothing to prepare him for the quiet.

Len can hear each breath Mick takes beside him, perfectly in sync with every step. He can hear the rustle of cloth, the touch of Mick’s flamegun against the fabric of his pants. He can hear the soft, almost delicate stroke of his own clothing against his skin – the hood of his parka brushes the curve of his ear, the rough, sandpaper grit against his cropped hair. 

These hallways were once busy, filled with hundreds of hopeful scientists before the explosion. Now, only three people walk these halls regularly, and really, one of those three doesn’t actually walk. This place is so – lonely.

There is a sound that comes from behind them, a lingering echo from the entrance of the building. It’s almost like – footsteps? Dozens of footsteps, all at once. Really, it’s probably the sound of the tile floor caving into the basement, the rumble of rubble. Len keeps an ear out, just in case.

As he and Mick make their way deeper into the heart of the laboratory, Len cannot help but wonder what the CCPD will make of the rocket launcher, propped against the outside wall of the building, spent. It is an ignoble end to a piece of equipment that served its purpose well. Aimed at the curved, outer wall of S.T.A.R. Labs, pointed downwards, the damaged done is staggering.

According to the building schematics Len stole, the particle accelerator lies underneath the building, so a solid hit allows them access to the main body of the building, as well as destabilizing the basement’s ceiling enough to destroy a decent chunk of the damned thing. Maybe it’s petty revenge, but Len is of the opinion that blowing up the very thing that is responsible for Barry’s coma with a rocket launcher is pretty solid therapy.

The act itself is loud and flashy, the perfect distraction for storming the castle and allowing Lisa to sneak in quietly through the rear entrance as their backup. And as for the launcher itself, the prints have been wiped clean, and the dealer it was taken from is no longer among the living, so it’s not as though the police are going to get any leads by examining it. Last, in light of Harrison Wells’ recent press conference, it’s a safe bet that most people are going to assume the attack has something to do with the man himself, and that Barry and Dr. Snow are collateral damage. 

Leonard Snart does the math, counting precious seconds in his head. He knows that they have perhaps five more uninterrupted minutes at best. Time is running short, and the CCPD will arrive soon. Even if S.T.A.R. Labs silent alarm hasn’t been activated, someone in the surrounding area was sure to have heard the blast and reported it. 

Where is Barry? Where is _anyone_?

They are running out of ground to search.

Len pulls his burner phone from his pocket, dials quickly.

Lisa picks up on the first ring. She doesn’t bother with any pleasantries, all business as she says, “Still clear from the back, Lenny. Van’s in place. You find him?”

“Not yet,” Len replies tonelessly. He closes his eyes, pictures the building’s schematics in his head. “You should be able to access the basement through a stairwell on your left. Do a sweep, would you? Be careful, but be quick.”

“Oh, Lenny,” Lisa sulks. “Dungeon crawling? Seriously?”

“Lisa,” Len says, and her name is a warning.

“Fine,” his little sister replies. “But you’re gonna owe me a day at the spa for this. And I want to paint Mick’s nails.”

Len hangs up the phone without answering and tucks the device into his back pocket. He glances at Mick from the corner of his eye to gauge the reaction, then says, “If I buy you a case of beer, will you let Lisa paint your nails?”

Mick frowns. There is a pause.

Len holds his breath, maintains a non-expression of disinterest. That pause isn’t a no. That pause is a consideration.

Finally, Mick grunts, “Phosphorous grenades. Half a dozen.” Len opens his mouth, just as Mick tacks on: “And _two_ cases of beer.”

“Are you sure you and Lisa aren’t related?” Len asks, dour. “Selfish, needy brats, the pair of you.”

Mick shrugs, “Can’t get something for nothing, buddy. Your sis and me – we just happen to know how much you’ll pay to keep the other happy–”

His partner falls silent abruptly. Len is about to ask what’s wrong when he feels it, too. That itch, right between his shoulder blades, that tells him there is something – dangerous – nearby. This is gut instinct. It is a strange, involuntary shiver. Leonard Snart first honed this sixth sense as a child, reading Lewis if he was drunk or in a particularly foul mood. He furthered it on the streets, and it saved his life several times over in jail. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Len sees Mick roll his shoulders, squaring them for battle. Mick’s lower jaw juts out, defiant. The big man jerks his head towards an innocent-looking open doorway.

Len unholsters his coldgun, angling it from his side to keep it mostly hidden in the folds of his parka. His legs are tense, ready to move. Mick pulls out his flamegun, stance mirroring Len’s and together they step through the doorway. Mick aims high, Len aims low. Eyes scan the area for the unknown threat, the danger in plain sight.

There is one occupant in the room. An unarmed man.

_In a wheelchair._

Which is kind of a kick in the nuts, if Len’s being honest.

“Well, well, well,” Len says, slowly, uncoiling from his defensive stance in the doorway. Mick doesn’t move, keeping a watchful eye on the hallway for reinforcements. 

“Harrison Wells,” Len continues, raking his eyes over the other man. Why is Wells setting off all of his silent alarms? Sure, the guy might be a genius, but he’s trapped in a prison of his own making, paralyzed from the waist down. “I can’t really say it’s a pleasure.”

“Leonard Snart,” Wells replies, a flat, hostile twist to his lips. “Or perhaps you might prefer Cisco’s nickname. Shall I call you Captain Cold?”

“Kinda like it,” Mick mutters quietly under his breath from the doorway.

Len ignores Mick, focusing his complete attention on the scientist in front of him. “You know who I am. That’s – fascinating. Tell me, why would a man of your caliber be interested in a petty thief like myself?”

“Are we playing coy, Mr. Snart?” Wells replies. 

Len stiffens a little – Mr. Snart is his father.

Wells’ eyes take in that subtle movement, and Len is amazed at how well this man seems to be able to read people. Within moments of their first meeting, Harrison Wells has already identified one of the few things that gets under Len’s skin – and what’s more, Len is willing to bet the man has even guessed _why_. It would be an impressive skill, if it wasn’t being directed against Len himself.

“Very well,” Wells continues, mouth pinched, “For the sake of simplicity, let’s simply say I have a vested interest in anyone who steals my technology.” The man glances down at the coldgun meaningfully.

“Oh?” Len says, smirking. “Who’s playing coy now? Because _I_ would say you and I have a mutual acquaintance. Or do you consider him your 'technology' too, Harry?” Ah, there it is, that marginal narrowing of dark, angry eyes. “I can call you that, can’t I, Harry?”

Harrison Wells is a man who demands respect. Len knows the type. He has several doctorates, and probably prefers people using his title rather than his name. Not that his name is any better. Han Solo aside, “Harrison” tastes like pompous soup, served with a silver spoon.

But if Wells is planning on calling him “Mr. Snart,” well – fair’s fair. 

“I was under the impression that you broke into my labs because you _wanted_ something,” Wells replies, not rising to the bait. 

“Okay, Harry,” Len says, just to be spiteful. “I can see you’re a man who doesn’t like to waste time, so I’ll keep it short. Where is Barry Allen?”

***

When the man known as Harrison Wells first hears the explosion, he follows his instinct. Cisco is down in the pipeline; Barry and Caitlin are at least thirty minutes away. Harrison abandons his wheelchair, leaving the unwieldy machine empty, sitting in the middle of the cortex. He rushes to his safe haven, the hidden room in the walls of S.T.A.R. Labs; the trip takes him less than a second.

“Gideon,” he says, “Locate the source of the explosion that just occurred.”

The AI brings up the requested visual. The video is of the front of S.T.A.R. Labs, where the main entrance has been blown to bits. Concrete debris lay scattered, surrounding a gaping hole that has replaced the front doors. It appears as though whoever did this knew what they were about, because even through the video, Harrison can see the outer shell of the pipeline. 

_Who?_ The man known as Harrison Wells opens his mouth to ask Gideon for clarification when he sees them. Two men, picking through the rubble of the entrance to gain access to the building. One of these men he recognizes only from his time in the future – Heatwave, of the Rogue’s Gallery. But the other– 

Leonard Snart, also known as Captain Cold. 

The man known as Harrison Wells actually finds his jaw is clenched at this point. That the man would _dare_ to attack S.T.A.R. Labs.

Snart is a pest, certainly, but one who has grown in recent years. Where as once the man was an insect, easily ignored, scuttling up the flower’s stem, now he has officially graduated to a thorn, stuck firmly into the bleeding thumb intent on crushing him.

Harrison reaches for his yellow suit. Now is as good a time as any to make an appearance as the Reverse-Flash. Barry is – Barry is growing faster, certainly, but also complacent. Plans can be moved forward, adapted as necessary, and the consequence of this action lies firmly on the shoulders of Leonard Snart.

Not that the man will be around much longer to appreciate it.

As an afterthought, the man known as Harrison Wells says, “Gideon, show me the future.” 

“Of course, Dr. Wells,” Gideon replies pleasantly. The video of the front entrance remains on screen, but it shrinks to half-size as the requested article appears and – it changes. As Harrison’s hand touches the suit, vibrating with the intention to kill Captain Cold, the image on the screen fluctuates. The familiar article titles – Flash Vanishes – Wayne Tech / Queen Inc. Merger Complete – Red Skies Vanish – they all fade, replaced by completely innocuous nonsense, the fluff reporting that takes place in light of no real news.

A detached corner of his mind notes that the author of the first article is still Iris West-Allen, even if the content involves the erection of a new City Hall, rather than the disappearance of his nemesis.

Startled, the man known as Harrison Wells lets his hand fall away from his yellow suit, and the article returns to its familiar visage. Flash Vanishes, the main title reads, sporting an iconic image of Barry with his cowl covering his face, lightning flashing in his eyes.

If he kills Leonard Snart here tonight, the future will be irreparably damaged. Ergo, he cannot kill Leonard Snart. Fate – oh, fate is _tricky_.

Lips tightening with visible rage, Harrison packs his suit into his ring and tucks it into his pocket. He checks his watch, touching his finger to the face and opening the secret compartment on the side. Three small, innocent pills sit there, a rainbow of primary colors: yellow, blue, red. His mind races with possibilities, best and worst case scenarios contemplated at super speeds; if he is correct, he’ll be needing at least one of these concoctions within the next few hours. He gently nudges the compartment closed with his thumb.

The video of the front entrance, still in real time, now shows a group of individuals dressed in black, guns slung over their shoulders as they use rope to propel themselves down into the pipeline.

 _Of course. Because General Eiling set a trap using Bette Sans Souci as the bait, but it wasn’t to catch the Flash_. The man known as Harrison Wells resists the urge to punch the wall as all of his carefully laid plans are instantly, effortlessly derailed.

Leonard Snart and Mick Rory are currently making their way through the halls of S.T.A.R. Labs, for a purpose that Harrison isn’t yet clear on. General Eiling has sent a team of soldiers into the labs, and they’re attempting to kidnap the prisoners in the pipeline. It’s possible they won’t have the time to force their way into _all_ of the prison cells, but Eiling will be collecting at least one metahuman this night – probably more. Barry is not present, so there is no hope of stopping these events; Harrison’s own hands are tied because if he kills Snart – indulges in what will likely be a glorious slaughter of the people who _dared_ to put their hands on what is his – he will change the future.

The only silver lining that Harrison can see is that both Barry and Caitlin are away from the labs. If nothing else, they are safe. Although if Eiling has planned this, as Harrison believes, it’s very possible that Barry is also walking into a dangerous trap. And Cisco isn’t in the cortex to provide backup–

“Gideon,” the man known as Harrison Wells says quietly, “Locate Cisco Ramon.”

“Of course, Dr. Wells,” Gideon replies. The image on the screen shows a pile of concrete rubble. Why would the AI show him–

There is a hand peeking out from beneath the pile. There is a smear of blood.

At this point, Harrison doesn’t judge the amount of blood on the ground to be life-threatening, but Cisco is out of commission, and the overnight security won’t show up before the CCPD do.

The man known as Harrison Wells flashes back to the cortex. He settles himself into his wheelchair and calls Caitlin on her cellphone. It rings a handful of times, then cuts to voicemail.

He quickly rattles off: “Caitlin, the labs have been attacked. Leonard Snart and his associate have destroyed the entrance and damaged the pipeline. I believe Cisco is down there; he may be trapped or injured. Eiling is after the metas in the pipeline – I don’t know if he has something planned on your end, but keep Barry safe.”

After he has left the message, he turns the phone on silent and tucks it into his pocket. Then, he steeples his fingers, anticipation and anger churning in his gut.

It isn’t a long wait.

“Well, well, well,” Leonard Snart says from the doorway, coldgun in hand. “Harrison Wells. I can’t really say it’s a pleasure.”

 _One day_ , the man known as Harrison Wells sneers internally, _one day you will not be protected by the promise of the future. One day I will take everything that you love, I will dangle it in front of you, and as you reach for it, I will crush it between my hands with a smile on my face. One day, I will_ destroy _you, I will dig my hand deep into your chest and pluck out your heart. I will crush it between my fingers with a smile on my face and it will be – beautiful._

“Leonard Snart,” Harrison replies, unable to contain fully contain his rage. “Or perhaps you might prefer Cisco’s nickname. Shall I call you Captain Cold?”

***

“Okay, Harry,” Len says, just to be spiteful. “I can see you’re a man who doesn’t like to waste time, so I’ll keep it short. Where is Barry Allen?”

Wells smiles, a tight, controlled expression. Len feels a childish desire, then, to slap that look right off his smug, stupid face. “Not here,” he says.

“Yes, I did manage to pick that up.” Len frowns, points his coldgun directly into the man’s face. He takes a step forward, threatening. “But perhaps you don’t understand how serious I am about this. _Where_ is Barry Allen?”

Wells tenses, but interestingly enough, there is no real fear in his expression. Again, the man offers an infuriatingly vague statement: “Somewhere else, obviously.”

Leonard Snart is furious, and this line of questioning is getting him no where. There is no time left; the CCPD is on their way. He makes his decision in an instant. “Don’t be a dick, Harry,” he spits. He steps forward again, raising his gun in a quick movement to slam it down on Harrison Wells' head, knocking the man unconscious. 

“Mick,” Len says, and jerks his head at the limp body of the scientist.

Mick strides forward, stepping away from the doorway as he eyes the body with trepidation. He grabs the man’s arm, grunting with exertion as he uses his legs to lift Wells from his wheelchair in a balanced, steady movement.

“You good to run?” Len asks. Mick tests the weight on his shoulder, an experimental shift, and nods. “Then let’s go.”

They break into a jog – not a full sprint, as the unexpected kidnapping of Harrison Wells wasn’t in the plan. Or rather, Len supposes, it was in _one_ of the plans. Just, not the one he thought he’d be employing this night. Still, he’s done his research, and really, very few people are going to miss the man immediately.

Together they make their way to the back entrance, where Lisa is already waiting for them with the van. 

“Didn’t see anyone in the basement except a covert S.W.A.T. team,” his little sister says cheerfully. Then, realizing it’s Harrison Wells, rather than Barry slung over Mick’s shoulder, she asks, “Weren’t we supposed to storm the castle and rescue the princess?”

“Like the three musketeers,” Mick agrees shortly, shifting Wells’ body over his shoulder to get a better grip.

Lisa snorts. “You’re such a dork. Anyway, that was the plan, yeah? So, where’s Blue-eyes?”

“Apparently we’re the three stooges,” Len replies, opening the rear doors of their unmarked van so Mick can dump Wells’ unconscious body inside.

“What does _that_ mean?” Lisa asks, hand on her hips.

“The princess is in another castle,” Mick deadpans. Then he grunts, “Move over, this guy is fucking heavy.”

***


	35. [1/4] Episode 8: The Golden Goose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, oh my god, kipsi made a piece of fanart for this story that is seriously _amazing_. Like, it's the most beautiful thing, and I have no idea how I'm going to get it posted, but once I figure out linking things in tumblr I will let you know where it is so you can go look because _oh my god_ it is beautiful.
> 
> Edit: Okay, I think I figured this out. Here's the [link](http://townwithoutheart.tumblr.com/post/141894585152/kipsiih-starting-this-series-of-coldflash).  
> 

***

From an outside perspective, the situation seems hopeless.

The room is tiny, perhaps the size of a broom closet, and empty save for the chair in which he sits. The floor is made of old, worn wood, and it creaks and groans beneath his weight every time he so much as leans to the side. There are no windows punctuating the walls, and only a single door that serves as both entrance and exit. There isn’t even a light bulb hanging from the ceiling, and the only source of light is the muted sliver that creeps beneath the uneven door, casting long shadows on the floor.

The chair in which he sits is old, made of splinters and glue, four legs, two uncomfortable armrests, and a rigid back. Unpadded, it is the sort of chair that one might find in an old-fashioned Catholic schoolhouse, designed to be as unpleasant as possible to keep the children who sit in it upright and awake through even the most boring lessons. 

Though he is not tied to this chair – as a man without the use of his legs – this small freedom should make little difference. It is for this same reason that his captors have not bothered to lock the door. The only thing his captors have done is pat down his pockets; when he awoke several hours ago, head already healed from the force of the blow that rendered him briefly unconscious, he took note of his missing cell phone.

His wallet is gone too, which is quite frankly insulting. 

But his captors, for all their plotting and planning and clever machinations - well, his captors, quite frankly, have no idea who they are really dealing with. Case in point: his watch is still secure around his wrist, his ring still rests in his pocket. Even without these two distinct advantages, these people, these _aberrations_ , cannot touch his speed.

So, yes, from an outside perspective, the situation may seem hopeless.

But the man in the chair? He is not worried about escaping because he knows he is fully capable of leaving any time he chooses. He is not paralyzed by fear of his unexpected captors because he is capable of killing each and every one of them in the span of a single breath. And though he is forced to stay his hand from any true, permanent damage, he isn’t really concerned about what these men may do to him because he has the biology of a speedster; he heals quick.

Right now, there is only one thing on his mind. One, very simple concern – how can he best turn this situation to his advantage?

Outside the door, he hears two voices arguing quietly. One voice belongs to Leonard Snart, the other to an unknown woman. Perhaps they mean for him to hear this argument, perhaps not. His mind is in overdrive, observing, questioning, cataloging.

Alone in the dark, cramped room, sitting motionless in the uncomfortable chair, the man known as Harrison Wells smiles.

It is not a nice smile.

***

After an unsuccessful rescue mission, which led to a very successful kidnapping, Len, Lisa, and Mick have all retreated to a relatively low-key safe house on the outskirts of Central City. It’s a small, off-the-grid cabin, complete with its own generator, and a well out back in place of running water. The surrounding land is wooded, though not heavily, and the nearest neighbor is miles down the road. 

The primary room is spacious, mostly empty. There is a lumpy, strangely comfortable couch against one wall, and a handful of scattered, wooden chairs. One either side of the couch, two small, wooden tables, each graced with serviceable, shaded lamps. The dull, red throw rug wards away the chill of the wooden floors, and each wall is graced with a single door.

One is an open doorway that leads to the kitchen. The three other doors are closed: one to the outside world, one to the bedroom, and one to the closet where their guest is currently trapped.

Originally purchased from an elderly gentleman, no longer able to utilize the cabin for his weekend hunting, Len had bought the place with the intention of giving it to Barry. He never followed through on that – never seemed to find the right time or the words – and when considering a safe place to keep Barry’s comatose body, the cabin seemed the simplest solution.

It has nothing to do with the savage twist of guilt he gets, thinking about this place and Barry and what might have been. About how much Len wanted something more, something real, but was too much of a coward to give Barry the truth. 

_Because Barry would have left_ , a small, angry part of Len’s mind whispers. _Because Barry is the son of a detective, the brother of a reporter, an employee of the CCPD. Because he believes in right and wrong and there isn’t any middle ground._

_Because they always leave._

This cabin would have made a good spot to keep Barry and Dr. Snow holed up, at least until Len learned the ins and outs of caring for a coma patient. By some stroke of luck, this place is perfect for what Len has in mind for Harrison Wells, too. Isolated, off-the-grid, not a soul around for miles.

The only variable that needs to be dealt with before Leonard Snart can implement these plans is his beloved little sister, Lisa.

Len loves his little sister. Honestly, even if the sentiment must sometimes be dragged from him unwilling, it’s only because he has difficulty admitting that sort of vulnerability aloud. But it doesn’t mean the love he feels for Lisa is any less valid, any less real. It just means he has trouble expressing it.

So when Lisa pulls Harrison Wells’ wallet out of her pocket with the casual air of someone simply going about their business, Len has to pause. Has to remind himself of the fact that he loves this woman dearly. Because he is struck, right then, with the very real urge to strangle her.

“Did you happen to lift anything else from the good doctor’s pockets while you were patting him down?” Len finally asks, mouth slightly pinched.

Lisa ignores his ire as she rifles through Wells’ wallet, pulling out a state ID card and frowning at it. She holds it up to a nearby lamp, turning her wrist so that the shiny plastic of the card catches the light and glints hypnotically. “His phone,” she replies absently. “Already turned it off, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m worried about your fingerprints on items that belong to a man we just kidnapped,” Len replies tightly. “Now, did you take anything else, Lisa?”

“Nope,” his little sister replies, rolling her eyes. She tucks Wells’ card back into the wallet, removes a couple of twenties, pockets them with a sweet smile. She pulls a phone out of her pocket, presumably Wells’, and tosses it to Len. As he catches the phone with one hand, she impishly chucks the wallet at his head, clearly aiming to score a hit while he’s already occupied.

It’s a game they used to play, when they were kids. Distract and dissemble. Don’t play fair, play to win.

Lisa is a thousand years too early to beat him, though. He catches the wallet with his free hand, throws it back in her face, and as both of her hands come up in surprise to catch the wallet, he takes a quick step forward into her personal space. His empty hand darts forward, thumb and forefinger coming together, and he flicks her squarely on the nose.

“Ow!”

The wallet falls to the floor, momentarily forgotten as Lisa covers her nose with one cupped hand. She shoves her hand at Len’s chest with enough strength to push him back a step and grumbles, “Jerk.”

“Brat,” Len replies fondly, reaching out to tussle her precious hair. “Look, Lisa, I know kidnapping isn’t our usual speed, but I don’t want any of this coming back on you. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Lenny,” Lisa sighs. She looks at him, at the expression on his face, and she relents. “Yeah, okay. All joking aside, I took his wallet and his phone. Both of which you now have.” She leans down and picks up the wallet from the floor, tossing it to him in an easily caught, underhanded throw.

“Good. Now, I have an errand I need you and Mick to run–”

Lisa rolls her eyes at him, putting her hands on her hips. “You’re not seriously sending both of us out at the same time, are you? Because I see what’s happening here, brother mine.”

“Do you? Harrison Wells is paralyzed from the waist down. What’s he going to do, throw something at me?” Len’s eyebrow quirks up, illustrating amusement, and he places the wallet and the phone on the small end table. The phone may have important information, but presently he can’t risk turning it back on and giving away his location. The wallet – well, the wallet will need to be burned. He won’t allow any of this to come back to Lisa.

“So what?” Lisa shoots back stubbornly. “What’s so damned important both Mick and I have to be there?”

“You’re meeting up with Vasquez and his crew,” Len replies without inflection. His tone is even as he lectures, “If you go by yourself, one of those thugs is going to say something to you that I won’t like, and when I hear about it, I will have no choice but to burn their operation to the ground.”

“If Mick goes by himself,” Len continues, jerking his chin at the cabin’s exit, where Mick is currently using the outdoor toilet, “he and Vasquez will get into a pissing contest. A pissing contest with Mick Rory ends in flames, and once again, their operation will burn to the ground.”

Finally, Len fixes Lisa with a deadpan stare. “I don’t want Vasquez to lose his operation because of me. He’s useful and I’d like to keep it that way. If I send you both together, Vasquez's boys won’t get smart with you, and you can keep Mick in line. Clear?”

“Oh.” Lisa frowns. “That – makes sense. I just figured you didn’t want me around for the torture.”

Len rolls his eyes. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the car, Lisa? And if Mick asks, tell him I want to talk to him before you head out.”

Lisa waves an impatient hand, her perfectly manicured nails catching the low lighting of the cabin. They gleam like tiny jewels as she flicks her fingers and pouts, “Fine, fine. I’m going. But only ‘cause I love you.”

She flounces out of the room, just as Mick enters.

Mick eyes Len speculatively, head tilted to one side. “Errand?” he asks gruffly.

“You and Lisa,” Len agrees. “Meeting up with Vasquez and his crew at the docks. Simple pick up job, already arranged. Money’s in the trunk of the car.”

“Ah,” Mick says, understanding dawning on his face like a warm sunrise. “You don’t want Lisa around while you torture the guy in the closet.”

Leonard Snart gives his partner a half-smile and a shrug. “Pretty much, yeah.”

***

The voices outside the door have quieted. Now, there are only footsteps, and the occasional sounds of furniture and heavy items being moved. The man known as Harrison Wells bides his time, ever patient. Which is not to say he _wastes_ time, because there is nothing to impede the lightning that races through his mind, a familiar comfort.

His wrist watch glows with the touch of a button, and he notes the time. It has been approximately six hours since his kidnapping from S.T.A.R. Labs. By his estimation, Barry and Caitlin should have returned from Eiling’s wild goose hunt hours ago.

There are many variables to consider, many notions he turns in his mind. He examines each element from as many angles as he can conceive. He likens these thoughts to the outer shell of a geode, warped and pocked with age, presenting some previously undiscovered facet depending on how it is held. And sometimes, just sometimes, cracking one open becomes a paradigm shift: that moment where he believes the world to be flat, only to suddenly discover it round.

For example, Cisco Ramon.

From one angle, Cisco is injured. The voicemail Harrison left on Caitlin’s phone ensures that he will be found, likely sooner than later. There wasn’t an abundance of blood in the visual Gideon had presented, and with any luck, the young engineer will suffer no lasting damage.

But from another angle, Cisco’s injury is catalyst for a larger problem. Cisco is trapped in the pipeline prison; because of the damage done to S.T.A.R. Labs structure, there will be countless men and women picking through that area: paramedics, police officers, cleanup crews.

It hasn’t escaped Harrison’s notice that while Eiling has kidnapped several prisoners from the pipeline, whoever remains will need to be relocated very discreetly, very quickly. Hopefully either Caitlin or Detective West will have the presence of mind to mention it to Barry. His speed is the best chance to transport those prisoners safely and without alerting the authorities.

Barry, who will undoubtedly be lost upon returning to find the lab in ruins. Cisco, injured. Harrison himself missing. Not to mention whatever the young man may be dealing with from Eiling’s trap.

Barry is – a different kind of thought all together.

The man known as Harrison Wells quickly returns his attention to Cisco, because there is a moment of revelation to be found here. A single line of dialogue, cracking open the hard, outer shell of this seemingly insignificant rock to reveal a cluster of iridescent crystal within. 

Cisco Ramon is a larger piece of this puzzle than previously believed.

“Don’t be a dick, Harry.”

There were, at best, twenty minutes between when Cisco unwittingly spoke those words, and when Snart spit them, full of venom, in the cortex. Cisco _touched Harrison’s arm_ and unknowingly picked up on, channeled, a piece of the future.

The man known as Harrison Wells finds this to be as fascinating as it is dangerous. If Cisco can learn to channel this ability, he will make a most challenging opponent. After all, how can you win a game of chess against someone who can see your next move?

Is Cisco’s ability limited to just the next move? Does it extend several moves in the future? Can he be taught to see the outcome of a game, step by step, beginning to end, before a piece is even placed on the board? If he can see these moves, is his ability fluid? Does he receive an update on new outcomes with every alteration he makes? Can he skirt the dangers of time travel, of altering the future, because technically it hasn’t yet happened and therefore he isn't actually breaking any of fate’s rules?

 _Oh, the possibilities_ , Harrison muses, lost in thought.

The most pressing concern is simply this: if Cisco can see the future, can learn to control and accurately interpret these hunches, then the young engineer’s very existence is a threat to everything he has spent these long fifteen striving towards.

At this moment, it isn’t a pressing issue, but the man known as Harrison Wells is very much aware of how quickly that can change.

Before he can continue that line of thought, there is a rustle outside the door. It is sudden, an unexpected rattle, and slowly, the doorknob turns. Perhaps if he was a different man, Harrison might feel the faint stirrings of dread. This is, after all, his first contact with his captors after hours of tense silence. As it is, Harrison simply takes a moment to appreciate Snart’s sense of theater, the low lighting, coupled with the ominous creak of the door as it slowly opens.

Leonard Snart stands there, back straight, looking down at the man known as Harrison Wells with a smirk twisting his lips.

It’s an expression Harrison has seen many, many times, thanks to Gideon’s constant surveillance of the city. It speaks of cockiness, of self-assurance bordering on arrogance. It is a look that tests his control, because the satisfaction of grabbing the other man’s head between his hands and smearing his face across the hardwood floor at super speeds is – oh, it’s tempting – to say the least.

Still, denial in this matter is key. The future must remain unchanged.

Harrison glances beyond where Snart stands. There is a chair in the middle of the room, and next to it, a motley assortment of tools: a car battery, a coil of wires, a knife, a hammer, some pliers, and a blowtorch. It appears Snart isn’t afraid to dirty his hands.

“Okay, Harry,” Snart says, still smirking. His eyes are cold, his expression nasty. “Let’s talk.”

***


	36. [2/4] Episode 8: The Butcher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who enjoys my side-stories, chapter 3 of B-sides is up and it details a bit of what's going on with Caitlin and Barry during the last chapter. Special thanks to CardinalStar for use of her headcanon for speedsters being able to charge the air around them with electricity, because it's a really neat concept, and her general assistance for this chapter overall.
> 
> Also, there are a ton of comments I'm looking forward to replying to, but my head is killing me; the rest of tonight's plans involve some advil and my bed. I'll be responding to comments tomorrow, but as a general note, thank you all so much for leaving them because they are wonderfully inspiring.

***

Leonard Snart stares into the face of Harrison Wells and he is disquieted. There is something – strange – about this man. For all that Wells is helpless, paralyzed and alone, there is something lurking behind the glare of those black, thick-rimmed glasses. Something Len cannot put a name to. Something that sets his teeth on edge.

He first noticed it back in S.T.A.R. Labs with Mick. It doesn’t stem from anything specific, nothing concrete that attracts his attention. It’s a feeling, a gut instinct. And it’s infuriating.

Wells sits, just as Len left him, in the uncomfortable, wooden chair in the middle of the closet. He does not fidget, does not shift. He stares up into Len’s face because he has no choice, and his expression is empty.

His eyes, though. His eyes are hungry.

There’s nothing for it. It doesn’t matter how many bad vibes Len may be picking up from this man; this plan is already in motion.

Wells says nothing, and so Len begins to pace. He moves with slow assurance, taking three steps forward. He draws an imaginary line in front of the closet doorway and walks it. Spins on the ball of his heel and walks it again, three steps. His wrists are crossed at the small of his back, his eyes never leaving Wells’ face. His head pivots to accomplish this, like an owl or some large bird of prey.

There are two ways to play this. He can speak now, or he can wait until Wells speaks first. Either way, there is a power play at work here. On one hand, sometimes making the first move is preferred. In a game of chess, for example, that first move is coveted. It is usually given to the player with least experience because of the clear advantage it presents. On the other hand, waiting until the other person speaks is its own form of control. It is akin to a children’s game; whoever blinks first is the one to lose.

Knowing what he does of Harrison Wells, Len chooses to break the silence between them. In fact, he decides to shatter it. 

“I was going to make you crawl,” he says.

He takes three steps, spins on his heel.

“I was going to make you crawl from where you’re sitting now to that chair, right over there.” He inclines his head, a brief dip towards the single, isolated chair in the cabin’s main room. The chair waits in the middle of the red carpet, as inviting as the cover of a horror movie. Tools are spread like a picnic to either side. Taken separately they are innocent enough: knife and hammer, pliers and wire, blowtorch and battery. Grouped together, laid out on the floor, neat and organized, well – that’s a touch more sinister.

Wells glances at the chair, at the tools meant to torture, and his face is carved from stone.

Three steps, spin.

“I couldn’t settle it in my head, though, what you would hate more,” Len admits. “Being made to crawl on your belly like a worm, dragging those useless legs behind you, broken and pathetic. Or having me carry you–” And here, Len catches the smallest twitch at the corner of Wells’ mouth. The faint curl of a lip, the tiniest sneer. A micro-expression of fury and disgust.

Three steps, spin.

“Aah,” Len says, drawing the sound out, an epiphany. He smirks. “That _would_ upset you more, wouldn’t it? Relying on another human being because you’re incapable of doing it yourself. But then–” The smirk takes a nasty twist. “–then I’d have to _touch_ you, Harry. And that upsets _me_.”

Three steps, spin.

Len stops. He cocks his head to the side, considering, then strides into the closet. He circles Wells’ chair briskly, an economy of movement, and very deliberately hooks his arms underneath the armrests. His hands brush against Wells’ arms. That’s when he feels it, the small tremor that jolts through the scientist’s entire body. 

It isn’t fear. Not yet, anyway.

But that tremor – it reminds Len of a racehorse, trapped behind the starter gate, chomping at the bit. Energy, barely contained, waiting for the signal.

Len braces himself, lifts with his legs. He is able to raise both man and chair a few inches from the ground without much difficulty. It’s not the most comfortable hold, and the balance is tricky, but the thought of carrying this pompous fuck bridal style makes his stomach churn.

(No matter how satisfying the humiliation on the man’s face might have been.)

It takes seven steps to reach the center of the room. He releases his hold on the chair. The fall isn’t far, but the movement of hitting the ground is jarring, and Wells lets out a surprised grunt at the impact. Len steps around Wells’ chair and hooks the leg of the empty chair with his foot, tugging it forward so that he can sit face to face with the other man. He leans against the backrest, unconcerned, his legs akimbo.

Wells’ expression is still blank, but there is a nearly imperceptible tightness to his jaw. His teeth are clenched.

“Oh, you didn’t like that at all, did you, Harry?” Len coos, layering false concern atop the vicious joy he can barely keep out of his voice. “You’re a control freak, I can tell. Did you know, when I first put you in that room, I made the conscious decision not to gag you?”

Wells breathes out through his nose. It’s a short, angry sound. Len grins.

“I mean,” Len continues, positively gleeful, “it’s not like you’re going anywhere, is it? Tying your legs up isn’t a priority.” He tilts his head to one side, still grinning. “But I could have gagged you while I left you to wait. I could have tied your hands to that chair and stuffed a scrap of cloth in your mouth and let you choke on it. I chose not to. Do you know why?”

Wells is silent. Observing.

That’s okay. Len’s feeling pretty generous right now.

“You can tell a lot about a man from the way he acts,” Len explains. “You can tell even more about him from the way he _reacts_.” And there it is again, that tightening of the jaw that tells Len his words aren’t just bouncing off the man’s calm façade. Some of them – well, some of them are definitely hitting. “Actions can be planned, plotted, contrived. Reactions? Far more natural. Far more honest. Far more telling.”

Len leans forward in his chair. He shifts his weight, butt sliding to the very edge of the seat so that he’s half standing on the balls of his feet. His heels are arched off the ground, his elbows convene on the top of either thigh. 

In a tone that hints at conspiracy, of familiarity, he continues, “You didn’t make a sound, Harry.”

Harrison Wells says nothing. His lips, already thin, compress into a bloodless line, pale against the backdrop of his face.

“You didn’t cry out for help or scream obscenities or rage at how unfair all of this is. You didn’t offer me money, tell me I can have anything I want if I just let you go. You sat in that room for six hours–” Len’s voice drops to a mock whisper, imparting this great secret, “–and you didn’t make a peep.”

“What kind of man does that make you, I wonder?”

“I’d say – an intelligent man.” Len leans back. He makes a show of rolling his shoulders. “You know my name, Harry. You know my record. And you know that while kidnapping has never been high on my rap sheet, I’m smart enough to pick a place with no one around to hear you scream.”

Nonchalant, Len cracks his neck. “Once you came to that conclusion, you didn’t even make an _attempt_ to call out. That tells me you’re arrogant.” A pause, touched by that grin that won’t quite leave his lips. “You’re so certain of yourself, of your own superiority, of your convictions and conclusions, that there was no _point_ in searching for an alternative answer. It tells me, Harry, that you’re a self-centered, egotistical prick.”

“It also tells me you know more about what’s going on than you’d care to admit.” Here, Len focuses his attention on the older man again, fierce, furious. “You didn’t ask me why I kidnapped you. You didn’t need to.” 

The lack of expression on Harrison Wells’ face is informative. The exquisite control he projects – it speaks volumes, for all the man hasn’t said a word. Len stares intently at that face, keyed into the smallest reactions. “I have some questions, Harry. Some theories. I even have a couple of _facts_.”

“You’re a scientist. That means you’re good with facts.” Without taking his eyes off the other man, Len leans to the side, brushing his fingertips against the tools he has spread on the floor. “So let me lay a few out for you, and we’ll see where the night takes us. I’ll put a couple of dots on the page, and you connect them for me. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”

And Wells – Wells doesn’t fucking _flinch_. He meets Len’s gaze, unblinking, doesn’t even follow the curve of Len’s arm down to where he’s caressing the wooden handle of the hammer. That’s–

That takes a certain kind of crazy. Just who the fuck is this man? Because he’s not _just_ a scientist. There is nothing in his records that indicates _anything_ that might explain this sort of response. But there’s one chink in this armor. Len saw it, back in S.T.A.R. Labs when he first asked a question.

“Barry Allen,” Len says. Harrison Wells’ mouth twitches abruptly. To Len, it’s a small, involuntary victory.

“Barry Allen,” Len repeats, and Wells’ jaw clenches. He radiates – fury? 

When Wells sees that Len’s getting something, an emotional read on his face, he very deliberately looks away. The man angles his face down so the minimal lighting of the cabin shadows his eyes, and he stares at the red carpet as if he can light it on fire with the power of his mind alone.

Cruelly, deliberately, Len reaches out. He presses his index finger to the underside of Wells’ chin, digging the finger into the soft flesh there as he directs the man’s face so that they are eye to eye once more.

“Barry Allen,” Len says softly, for the third and final time. There’s no further pretending; Wells’ mouth twists up, a pinched, nasty expression. It’s obvious he’s doesn’t want to hear the name. 

“Struck by lightning nearly a year ago, been in a coma ever since,” Len continues. “His mother was killed by an impossible man – a man who I’ve been hunting. A man who uses S.T.A.R. Labs as his base of operation.”

Satisfied that Wells isn’t going to look away again, Len lets his hand drop from the other man’s face. “Barry was transferred to those same labs, at _your_ request. Hell of a coincidence, don’t you think? And yet, imagine my surprise when I broke in there tonight, because he’s nowhere to be found.”

Len leans to the side again, running his fingertips over his tools, casually brushing against the surface of each. “I need you to know, Harry, that I want answers. I’m going to get them one way or another. And I need you to know that torture – torture is on the table. I _want_ to hurt you.”

Len wraps his fingers around the handle of the pliers, hefting them experimentally. The fingernails are as good a place to start as any. His hands don’t shake. His voice is cold and even as he adds quietly, “I don’t think you need me to tell you that, Harry. You look like a pretty smart guy.”

Harrison Wells smiles.

It’s a small thing, sudden. It’s gone in an instant, so why the fuck is Len leaning back in his chair, instinctively putting as much space between himself and this man as he can without standing up. He clutches the pliers to his chest.

For the first time since Len opened the closet door, Harrison Wells speaks. His voice is calm, almost cheerful as he says, “I find it charming. You think because you have known monsters, you can become one.”

And that’s – that’s not right. It doesn’t make sense.

“You – you’re not afraid of me. You think I won’t hurt you?” Len replies slowly, testing the waters of this statement cautiously. His fingers tighten around the grip of the pliers. “No, that’s not it.” Len stares into the other man’s face, eyes narrowing, confused, agitated. “You think I _can’t_ hurt you. Why is that?” 

Wells smiles again. Instead of answering the question, he says, “You’re quite adept at reading body language, aren’t you, Mr. Snart? In fact, I think you’ve demonstrated several noteworthy skills in this endeavor of yours. I can honestly say, I’m impressed at how easily you discovered the connection between S.T.A.R. Labs and the Flash.”

“Why aren’t you afraid?” Len repeats, not to be deterred. He has lost control of this conversation so easily, it makes him wonder if he even had it to start. What does it say, that he made the opening move, then another ten after that, continuous and without pause, and this man is still able to knock him off his game?

“Let us simply say my value is far great alive than dead,” Wells replies cryptically. The corners of his eyes actually crinkle, a testament to his amusement.

“To who? The Flash?” Len hazards.

“Oh, no,” Wells replies. He’s still smiling, that infuriating little smile. Every hair on Len’s arm stands at attention, and the air is suddenly heavy, charged with electricity. “Not like the Flash at all. In fact – you might call him the Reverse.”

And then someone picks Len up from behind, lifts him straight up by his neck like a puppy by its scruff. His arms flail and he tries to swipe at whoever has him, the pliers are lead in his hand. It doesn’t work, he swings and misses, beating at empty air. He is thrown, that weightless moment where gravity is too surprised to pull him down, and then he’s hitting the wall of the cabin and crumpling to the floor.

Len gasps, the wind knocked from him. There are footsteps, soft, deliberate. Yellow boots fill his vision, and his mind stutters to a confused halt. His body is a survivor, though, and he is pushing up off the ground without conscious thought, scrambling to stand, get to a better position, protect himself– 

One gloved, vibrating hand knots in the front of Len’s shirt and hauls him up. The breath is punched clean out of his lungs for a second time, and the hand pins him violently to the wall where he flails momentarily. Nothing makes sense. There is yellow everywhere, the mockery of a uniform Len has studied for weeks. There is a familiar emblem on the man’s chest, a bolt of lightning. And then he’s lost, staring into a pair of glowing, red eyes.

_Oh. Oh fuck._

Dazed, Len can only gape, slack jawed, trapped like an insect pinned under the glass. This – this was not in the plan.

Looking over this impossible man’s shoulder, Len seeks out Harrison Wells. The man hasn’t moved, calm, unconcerned. He is like a statue, still smiling, just _watching_ these events play out. _Somehow he knew_ , Len thinks, even as the yellow man’s fist connects with Len’s face.

The beating is brutal but thankfully brief. A second hit catches Len’s jaw, and a third gets his stomach before he has a chance to tense the muscles there. It makes him want to puke, a gut reflex he just barely manages to swallow back. There are two more hits, they bruise his ribs. They feel nearly simultaneous with how fast this man moves. Fast, like the Flash. Maybe faster, but it’s hard to compare for certain because the Flash has never gotten the drop on him like this. The Flash has never used his speed to _hit_ , like a bullet punching through paper, that’s how it feels.

(Maybe the Flash never wanted to. Len feels sick.)

“Did you – do it–” he gasps, and the hand – the gloved, yellow hand that has held him in place through all of this – finally releases. Unable to support his own weight, his legs shaking, Len slides down the wall. As he slumps to the ground, he manages to spit out, “– kill her–”

The man in yellow has a voice that will haunt Len’s nightmares for years to come. It is soft, articulate, warped. It is both gentle and sinister, and it is _horrifying_. “Did I kill Nora Allen? Yes.”

“–Flash–”

“I am responsible for her death, so why was the Flash there that night?” The man pauses. “To save her. To protect her. To fail against me, as he always has.”

“–why–”

“A broad question,” the man says. “Why did I kill Nora Allen? It was not my intention. I was there to kill Barry, you see.”

The world stops spinning. What else could send him lurching, even crumpled on the ground, and twist his stomach into a knot that nearly cripples him. That poisonous voice echoes in his skull, reverberates with every fiber of his being.

_There to kill Barry._

Len can only stare up, helpless, at the giant who towers over him, who looks down on him with red, glowing eyes. There is an ache in his chest that has nothing to do with the beating he just took, and he turns his head to look at where Wells is staring at him, still fucking smiling like this – all this – is normal.

_There to kill Barry._

The man in yellow follows his gaze, then addresses Wells. “And now, Dr. Wells, I think you and I will be leaving. You are – almost – more trouble than you are worth.”

And then they are gone. The cabin is empty of all movement, all noise. The only sound he hears is the stuttering beat of his own heart, pounding like cannon fire inside his ears. He aches – cheek and jaw, ribs and stomach. He can feel the blood rushing to those areas, the heat it brings.

He closes his eyes and does not move.

When Lisa and Mick return, Lisa will run to his side, check his pulse. Upon confirming that he is alive, she will touch the black and blue mark just beginning to form at the corner of his mouth. Her fingers will tremble and she will say, “The fuck did he do, Lenny, throw something at you?” 

_There to kill Barry._

And Len will force a laugh and he will tell her he made a mistake.

(And when he looks at the end table where he put Wells’ wallet and phone and finds them missing, he will bite his lip until it bleeds. He will think of Lisa’s fingerprints on both, and he made a mistake, fuck, oh fuck, he made a mistake.)

***


	37. [3/4] Episode 8: Godfather Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readership. I'm really sorry this chapter has taken me so long to get out. This last week has been something of a mess for me and my head isn't really in a good place. Anyway, thanks for your patience, and I hope you continue to enjoy!
> 
> (Also, we hit 1k kudos with this fic. Holy shit, thank you!)  
> Also also, I have about 4 comments from the last chapter to respond to still; you are not forgotten! I'm just slow :3

***

The man known as Harrison Wells is not happy. 

The last time he felt this level of aggravation, it was in direct correlation to the actions of one Leonard Snart. This time, though – well, Snart may be involved, but he isn’t the one with whom Harrison is furious.

This irritation, this displeasure, this roiling tangle of emotion is, in fact, directed at Harrison _himself_. Setting aside the kidnapping and the threat of torture, Snart has very little to do with how Harrison feels at the moment. Though Harrison had no control over the inception of these events, originally he was going to deal with them in the manner that would best benefit him.

It comes down to this: he had a plan.

In a secret compartment inside his watch, there are three pills: yellow, blue, and red. These pills made the journey with him, from the future to the present. He has only needed yellow and blue on occasion during his exile these last fifteen years. Part of that stems from necessity, and part from practicality.

In the future, the man known as Harrison Wells created these three pills with his own biology – the biology of a speedster – in mind. The yellow pill, for example, slows down his metabolism to a virtual standstill for approximately twenty-four hours. It allows him to sustain injuries, to wear them like pathetic badges of honor. Bruises, scrapes, cuts: to a speedster, these troubles are fleeting, but the yellow pill? Oh, the yellow pill allows him to play at being _human_.

He is not an idiot, however, nor does he believe in tempting fate. The blue pill negates the effects of the yellow pill in sixty seconds flat. 

Both yellow and blue are easy enough to synthesize, even using this era’s barbaric technology, and he has had to make several replacements over the years. When he stole the face of the original Harrison Wells, he used the yellow pill to make sure that he kept the injuries brought about by the car accident. It wouldn’t do for the doctors who examined him to become suspicious, after all.

The last pill, though – the red one. He cannot create another red pill without access to his laboratory in the future. The technology needed to do so does not yet exist, and he cannot recreate it in this time without “discovering” an entirely new branch of science. In truth, it doesn’t really matter; the red pill is something of a trump card. If he ever finds himself in a situation where he needs to use it, well –

It is a last resort, nothing more.

But that isn’t important right now. What is important is that the man known as Harrison Wells had a plan – a good plan – and yet, for some reason, he allowed the blatant loss of his own temper to impede that plan.

Sitting in a broom closet for hours on end gave him plenty of time to come up with his best case scenario. A simple strategy – straightforward – because he has found that in short-term manipulation of those around him, simple has the highest likelihood of success.

He planned to use his speed to steal back his cell phone. He would then turn it on, leave it on silent, and conceal it somewhere nearby.

With Cisco out of commission and S.T.A.R. Labs an active crime scene, there weren’t many outside options available to aid his escape. But one of the CCPD’s standards of operation in a kidnapping would be to actively track the signal of his cell phone, and Barry would be privy to the investigation. With Barry’s speed he could arrive at Snart’s hideout before the CCPD did, giving him the opportunity to rescue a bruised and battered Harrison, and incapacitate Leonard Snart, leaving him for the police to arrest.

By using the yellow pill, he could endure a few hours of Snart’s torture and sustain the appropriate injuries. It certainly wouldn’t be pleasant, but it would cement the idea that Leonard Snart could not be trusted. In fact, considering Barry’s propensity for placing the well-being of those he cares about far above his own, it is likely that Snart torturing Harrison would be the final wedge to drive them apart completely. Directly killing Snart wasn’t workable, but sending him to prison on charges of kidnapping and torture was a distinct possibility.

Because, for all that Barry may claim to be moving on, there is no doubt in Harrison’s mind that the young man holds – something – for Leonard Snart. Some small scrap of nostalgic affection, which in turn may segue into potential forgiveness. And for reasons Harrison doesn’t particularly feel like examining, that won’t do at all.

This plan covers all bases. It protects Harrison’s secret identity as the Reverse-Flash, casts Snart firmly in the role of the villain, and allows Barry to play the hero. That it will also divide Barry from Leonard Snart is simply icing on the cake, so to speak.

But when Snart opens the door of the closet and the first words that Harrison hears in that obnoxious, nasally drawl are, “I was going to make you crawl,” well – that changes things. There is a curious, red haze that filters over Harrison’s eyes. It’s unusual, because he knows what it is to look at the world through red-tinted eyes, and it isn’t this. 

This – this is _fury_. This is the sort of emotion usually reserved for the Flash of the future: the bile in his throat, the sickness beneath his skin. He can barely keep himself still, he is _shaking_ with it, with the need to tear his fingers into the soft, fleshy meat that stands on two legs and sneers down at him like he is worth less. He wants to sink his teeth in, to bite down to the bone and _rip, tear, rend_.

Every muscle in his body is on edge, and when Snart’s hands brush by him as the other man lifts him and his chair, _carries_ him to the center of the room like an infant, it is all he can do to keep himself in check.

Each poisonous word that spills from Snart’s lips tests his control, teases the edges of his own awareness, and when Snart says Barry’s name – once, twice, _three_ times –

When the man known as Harrison Wells is fully in control of himself once more, he is already wearing his yellow suit, fingers curled into the soft fabric of Snart’s shirt, pinning him to the wall in a manner that is wholly satisfying. Equally satisfying, the dull ache of his knuckles as his fist meets with Snart’s smart mouth, his tender stomach, his fragile ribs.

The man known as Harrison Wells is careful. He is not so far gone that he will risk killing Snart with an accidental broken rib or punctured lung, but he finds it impossible not to lord the beautiful and gratifying truth over this man. To see that light in Snart’s eyes go dull as the enormity of his own failure is revealed–

–the guilt and shame, the self-recrimination, it is so sweetly potent that it makes the man known as Harrison Wells ache. God, how magnificent it will be, if Snart should ever realize that _Barry_ is the Flash– 

And so, while not even remotely close to his original plan, leaving Snart so soundly beaten is _priceless_ , crumpled on the floor of the cabin like so much trash.

It does leave Harrison with some clean up to accomplish, though. The loss of his temper isn’t the end of the world, but it does up his original timeframe of introducing Barry to the man in yellow. There is no easy way to explain Harrison’s escape from Leonard Snart’s insidious clutches. He must therefore appeal to Barry’s love of the impossible.

A new plan forms, as easy as breathing. Barry will, at some point in the next day, be working in his lab at the CCPD. He will look up from his microscope, squinting as he scrubs the sleep and worry from his eyes, disbelief written in every exhausted line of his body. First, he will be confused. Then, furious.

Across the street, on the top of a nearby building, the man in yellow will stand, eyes glowing red. The man in yellow will lead Barry on a merry chase throughout the city, faster, so much faster, always one step ahead. When he stops, so too will Barry – and Barry will scream, “Who are you?”

The man in yellow will smile, not that Barry will be able to tell. The vibration and distortion, the glowing red eyes, they will speak louder than words ever could. They will hiss, unrelenting: _monster, monster, monster._

“I stabbed your mother through the heart,” the man in yellow will say, and Barry will bare his teeth like a wounded animal, small and afraid. He will take a single step forward, and then he will stop, horror and confusion at war on his expressive face. He will stare at the crumpled body of Harrison Wells on the pavement, behind the man in yellow, just barely visible, limp and unmoving.

Softly, the man in yellow will taunt, “If you chase me now, I’ll let you catch me. I’ll even tell you why I killed her. But I need you to know – he will not be here when you get back.”

_One or the other, but never both._

And Barry will look between the man in yellow and the lifeless body of Harrison Wells – and after that, well – 

After that, the man known as Harrison Wells doesn’t know what will happen. This is reckless and imperfect, but if Barry chooses the man in yellow, it is vindication and validation. It is the reason to continue fifteen years of planning and plotting. It is _proof_.

And if instead Barry chooses the man known as Harrison Wells, that is evidence of something else entirely. And it shouldn’t thrill him, but it does. Oh, God, it does.

***

Leonard Snart winces as his sister slips two fingers between the bandage and his skin, testing the tightness of the wrap around his ribs. He is quite lucky. Despite evidence to the contrary, the man in yellow was not out to kill him. The two hits taken to his sides were intensely painful, but they did not break his ribs. 

It’s pure speculation at this point, but Len imagines the man in question must be intimately acquainted with the human body. Those blows were designed to impart the greatest amount of _hurt_ without doing any irreparable damage. Bruised ribs are painful, but broken ribs? Those are unpredictable, and the possibility of a punctured lung or something equally more fatal is on the table.

Lisa has the contents of an entire first-aid kit spread out on the comforter of the bed. Her hands flutter like helpless birds, darting from one implement to the next. She has already completed a fairly extensive medical exam on him, wrapping his ribs, checking the bruising on his stomach and back, cleaning his bloody lip. There is no reason for her continued fussing.

No reason, save for the fact that she is afraid. It hasn’t escaped either her or Mick’s notice that the man in yellow could have killed him.

The question Len must turn over in his own mind is simply this: why didn’t he?

Lisa’s biting her lower lip, her full, cupid pout pulled into a frown as she says, “So, let me just lay all this out, Lenny. Since, y’know, it sounds _fucking_ insane.”

“The Flash,” Lisa says, and she begins to pace the length of the bed. At the mention of the man in red, Len can’t control the tic at the corner of his eye, the smallest flinch. “The Flash didn’t actually kill Barry’s mom, did he? He was there that night to save her, and for his trouble, you –” She pauses, makes a face, and ticks off each point on one of her fingers, “froze pieces of him, shot him in the shoulder, shoved your fingers in the hole, then punched him in the face until he stopped moving.”

Len says nothing. He doesn’t have a defense against the truth.

“Derailed two trains, too,” Mick adds, ever helpful, slouched casually against the cabin wall.

“Right,” Lisa nods. “The trains. And you shot him again that time, yeah? But you couldn’t finish him off because some redheaded explodey woman came to his rescue. What happened to her, by the way?”

“Got kidnapped by the army,” Mick interjects gruffly before Len can respond.

“Ri-i-ght,” Lisa drawls out slowly, in a tone reserved for the most unhinged of psychopaths. “The same army that probably sent the S.W.A.T. team that was in the basement of S.T.A.R. Labs when I was poking around and looking for Blue-eyes.”

Len sits up abruptly. “S.W.A.T. team?”

Still pacing, Lisa waves her hand carelessly as she says, “I already told you about them.”

“You mentioned them – briefly – when I was busy kidnapping Wells. I thought you were joking,” Len defends. Covert army operations don’t belong anywhere near his little sister. It doesn’t matter if she can defend herself because that kind of attention doesn’t end with jail time; it ends in human experimentation, so her complete lack of concern is – troubling, to say the least. 

He makes a mental note to look into his surveillance footage of S.T.A.R. Labs and get a better read on the army. Clearly, they’re more involved in this than he first believed.

“Whatever,” Lisa says, neatly dismissing the topic as she continues, “So, this guy who beat you up tonight, this – Reverse-Flash? He’s the actual villain of this story. Only he wasn’t after Barry’s mom. He wanted to kill Barry himself.” She stops her pacing to sit, perching beside Len on the edge of the bed. She crosses her legs and leans back, thoughtful. 

“Kind of fucked up,” Mick agrees. He pulls a zippo lighter out of his pocket, making it dance between his thumb and forefinger. He sparks it in one smooth motion, then flicks it shut with a snap of his wrist. “You tried to kill the only ally you have against this Reverse-shithead.”

Lisa makes a sound of agreement, then contributes, “Flash – Reverse-Flash – both men who move faster than anything you’ve ever seen before. There’s got to be a connection there, right?”

At the same time, Mick adds thoughtfully, “Your coldgun still works. Best weapon against speed.”

Beside Len, Lisa’s on a roll. She makes a fist, slamming it against the palm of her other hand as she says, “And Harrison Wells! Clearly, he’s in cahoots!”

“Nobody uses that word,” Mick says.

“What the fuck, Mick, am I not still young? Still hip?”

“Shut it, woman,” Mick grouses, and Lisa sticks her tongue out at him.

“Children,” Len says, raising his voice to cut them both off. Not that he doesn’t appreciate the input, but listening to them go at it does nothing for the infectious headache behind his eyes, creeping, spreading, insidious inside his brain.

(Then again, the man in yellow did punch him in the face. Not entirely surprising a headache is the result.)

He sighs, then says, “Wells and the Reverse-Flash are – partners in crime, I believe? At best, Wells is an unwitting accomplice. At worst, an accessory to murder. It’s possible Cisco Ramon and Caitlin Snow are in on it as well. No real evidence for or against it, apart from the fact that they both work for Wells even after he devastated this city with his failed experiment.” 

Lisa frowns, fingers plucking at a piece of lint on the comforter. Her fingers wrap around a pair of tweezers, pulling them out of the pile of medical supplies still scattered on the bed. These tweezers have been used on more than one occasion to put in stitches, tips stained red with old, brittle blood. She fiddles with them, a nervous gesture that occupies her hands as she speaks softly, her voice hushed.

“Conspiracy Labs, Lenny. What if it _wasn’t_ a failed experiment? What if it did exactly what Wells wanted it to do?”

Len tilts his head to the side, considering his little sister’s very careful tone. Mick straightens, standing at his full height as he pushes away from the wall.

Lisa continues, “Hear me out. Wells is a psychopath, right? Or at the least, he’s working with one. He had that press conference earlier, where he admitted that someone warned him the partical-thingy might explode in his face. And he _did it anyway_.”

She bites her lip. “What if he already knew it was going to explode? What if that was always the plan?”

Mick asks, “Why?”

It’s the obvious question. But it’s funny, Len muses, because obvious doesn’t mean it’s not important. If anything, the answer to that question makes it the most important question to ask. How the hell does anyone ever mistake his partner for an idiot, seriously.

“It got Blue-eyes in a position under Wells complete control, didn’t it?”

Lisa’s reply chills the blood in his veins.

Len turns the speculation over in his mind, considering all the angles. Slowly, he says, “Barry was struck by lightning. Short of time-travel, there’s no real way to predict where that’s going to strike.”

“Impossible people,” Mick shrugs. “They do impossible things.”

Lisa nods, leaning forward as she blurts out, “What if it’s true, Lenny? What if – you said the Reverse-Flash was there that night to kill Barry, and now, fifteen years later, Barry is put under the complete control of S.T.A.R. Labs, which is the same place that the Flash uses as his base of operation. The Flash, who is the enemy of the Reverse-Flash. But S.T.A.R. Labs belongs to Harrison Wells, and Wells is in cahoots with the Reverse-Flash.”

She shakes the tweezers she’s holding at him like a pointed finger, “I don’t know what the fuck it all means, big bro, but – Conspiracy Labs, Lenny. For _reals_.”

There is a brief stutter in Len’s chest as he speaks the question that has been on his mind all night. He manages to keep his voice from shaking, but he can’t help that he stumbles over the first word as he asks, “Is – is Barry even alive?”

“Hey.” Lisa drops the tweezers onto the bed, then uses her arms to propel herself sideways so she can scoot right up next to him. She leans into his personal space, radiating warmth, and repeats, “Hey. Stop that right now, Lenny.”

Len swallows. He hates his weakness in this moment. He turns his head away, closes his eyes.

“Wells didn’t say anything about Blue-eyes being dead, Lenny,” Lisa continues. “And Detective Dad wouldn’t be okay just – not seeing him. Joe West isn’t a fucking mess, right? So Barry is _definitely_ still alive.”

Len lets out a deep, shuddering breath. He does not cry. His eyes are squeezed shut as he listens to his little sister’s faultless logic, letting her soothing voice wash over him. The knot in his chest slowly uncoils.

God, he is so on edge right now. The appearance of the man in yellow, the complete upheaval of his purpose these last few weeks, all of it tied together leaves him precariously unbalanced. He feels as though he is teetering on the brink of complete destruction; his face throbs, his ribs ache.

It feels like catharsis, brutal and raw.

As Lisa continues to murmur nonsensical reassurance in his ear, Mick asks abruptly, “Now a bad time to mention the guy in the trunk of the car?”

“What.” Len is upright, standing on his feet before he’s fully aware of the action. The movement drags Lisa with him, although she doesn’t quite catch her footing in time and ends up in a heap on the floor.

“Oof,” she groans. “What the shit, Lenny.”

Len says nothing, ignoring her as he stares at Mick.

“Yeah,” Lisa grumbles from her spot on the ground. “I forgot about him.”

There is something Len is missing in this conversation, some pitfall, some trap that he is simply not seeing. Cautiously he asks, “Why is there a guy in the trunk?”

Mick smiles. It’s a slow, dangerous thing. “Because,” his partner says smugly, “He’s impossible.”

***


	38. [4/4] Episode 8: Reverse-Sleeping Beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted chapter 4 of B-sides, a short story about how Harry met Sally. Or rather, how Eobard met Barry. The chapter below isn't quite a complete wrap up, and there are still a few questions hanging. I blame myself as a writer :) Entirely too much happened in this episode for me to fully clear up. Most of it should be taken care of in episode 9. Stay tuned!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your reviews. You are all amazing, and I am so very thankful for this fandom. I will hopefully be able to respond to all of you sooner than later, but please know, those stellar comments I got last chapter? They give me life :) And they keep me writing. Sincerely, wholly and completely, thank you.

***

“We found Cisco,” Barry whispers, and his fingers clutch Harrison’s hand tightly. It is as though the young man is afraid to let go. His skin is sticky hot, and the sweat between their palms should be uncomfortable.

Harrison finds he wants to squeeze the hand that holds his, a gentle reassurance. He resists the urge, his eyes remain closed. He does not move, save the steadiness of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest. 

Inhale, exhale. It is a mantra that seems to bring Barry some small measure of comfort.

“He was – I mean, me and Cait, we got your message. And Cisco’s here, at this hospital. He’s a couple of floors up, in ICU, but the doctors, they’re hopeful. Cait looked at his chart, she said–” Barry makes a small noise, something between a cough and a sniffle, “–um, he’s got a couple of bruised organs, two cracked ribs, some mid-grade abrasions from the rubble. He’s probably got a concussion, too, like you, but–”

The fingers around Harrison’s tighten, a convulsive movement, uncontrolled, spastic.

“He hasn’t woken up yet. That’s. That’s the big thing. It’s only been half a day. He’ll be okay. He just–”

Barry’s voice wavers, but he continues; he does not falter, does not stumble over the words. The man known as Harrison Wells has always found that level of blind conviction intriguing.

“–he needs to wake up. So do you.”

***

An outsider might wonder why it is that the man known as Harrison Wells has – difficulty – predicting the actions of Barry Allen. For someone who has watched the young man for nearly fifteen years, it is perhaps unclear as to why Harrison might hold certain beliefs. Fifteen years of observation is extensive, to say the least, and anyone who has ever interacted with Barry for more than fifteen minutes will likely admit, readily and without reservation, that the young man is both righteous and moral. They will say that he is good, so intrinsically, inherently _good_ that it is sometimes difficult to believe that he is real.

Someone who has interacted with Barry Allen for fifteen minutes might say that no matter how tempting Barry’s desire to discover his mother’s murderer and acquit his father of the crime, the young man will never place his desires above the well-being of another human being. Not a criminal, or an innocent bystander... and most certainly not a certain scientist with whom he has been developing a rather close relationship with these last two months.

So why is it that the man known as Harrison Wells, a scientific genius and a master of the human condition, might hesitate to answer this question, when anyone else would come to the answer in a matter of seconds?

It comes down one key distinction: the sample size of the data pool.

The man known as Harrison Wells hasn’t been observing Barry Allen for fifteen years. He has been observing Barry Allen for the better part of his adult life. As a student of time travel, the implications of that statement are actually staggering.

Where most people can look at the twenty-five years Barry Allen has walked this earth, the man known as Harrison Wells must account for countless years in the future. Years spent studying with an older version of this man, blind to the poisonous viper set to strike, poised and still beneath his nose. Years spent fighting each other, searching for the identity of that man behind that mask, a face to put his hatred to. And that moment of truth, or betrayal, where he learned that Barry Allen and the Flash were the sole same individual?

His perception is skewed. When he looks at Barry Allen, he cannot _only_ see a bright, caring man, shaped by tragedy, yet constantly rising above those experiences to become something better, something more. Barry’s face is sometimes – not as much these days – juxtaposed with a much older, more distinguished face. A face worn with age, weary in ways that words alone cannot describe.

When he looks at Barry’s face, he cannot _only_ see the young, hopeful visage of a man seeking to make the world a better place. The man known as Harrison Wells sees betrayal and heartache and the hatred borne to conceal both. He sees a lifetime of broken promises. He sees the faintest outline of a man he will not meet for another one hundred and fifty-nine _years_ , and for as much as he is coming to care for _this_ Barry Allen, that shadow will always hang between them.

The Barry Allen of this century is a very, very different creature than the man he learned to hate nearly two centuries in the future. When it comes to dilemmas of a moral nature, predicting Barry’s actions is never going to be something Harrison can commit to easily. He can read the motives and intentions of almost anyone, anywhere – but Barry? Barry will always be a blind spot. There will _always_ be a sliver of doubt that creeps forward, makes itself known from the shadows.

The man known as Harrison Wells should be able to say, with confidence, “Barry Allen will chose to save the innocent life–” 

–he can’t. He can’t commit to that statement. Not fully. Not with confidence.

Because what if this is it?

What if this is the first time that Barry breaks a promise selfishly? What if this is the first time Barry decides to put his own needs over what is righteous, what is right? What if this is the moment where the young man sets his foot on the path that will turn him into – something else? _Someone_ else?

Because that day is coming.

The only thing the man known as Harrison Wells _doesn’t_ know – is when.

***

“It doesn’t make sense,” Barry admits quietly, and the man known as Harrison Wells remains still and breathes. Inhale, exhale, steady and sure.

“I know you said that Len – I mean, Cold – he was there. Eiling, too.” Barry pauses, and Harrison knows the young man well enough to picture him chewing his lower lip in this moment of silence. “But the man in the yellow suit, the one who killed my mother? Where did he come from? How is he involved in any of this? Was he the one to take you from S.T.A.R. Labs? Or was it Len – or Eiling?”

“I didn’t know what to do, so I called for backup,” Barry continues. “When I was in Starling City, I helped Oliver Queen with a case... and he owed me one. I cashed in that favor. I’ve got – I mean, there’s so much for me to tell you when you wake up.”

Here, Harrison finds himself listening avidly. This is Barry’s first foray into the field; this is a young man who has been a superhero for two months and who has never been without the safety of a mentor, of a team to support him. The decisions that Barry has made in these last twelve hours, they are a wealth of independent information.

It is most gratifying, that Barry should recognizing that he is lost. Without Harrison to guide him, without Cisco to support him, without S.T.A.R. Labs to shelter him–

–how overwhelming it must be, how small Barry Allen must feel.

“S.T.A.R. Labs is out of commission, at least for the time being,” Barry says, oblivious to Harrison’s internal musings. “It’s an active crime scene. Even after the police clear it, we’ve got a lot of repairs to do – I mean, the front door is kind of, y’know, exploded.”

“Oliver bought us a warehouse, right outside the city line. It’s a little scary, how much money he has to just – throw around. He had complete ownership of the place within, I don’t know, thirty minutes of when I called first him?”

Barry laughs, incredulous, disbelieving.

“It was. I mean, the place is kind of perfect? I don’t know how he found it on such short notice. It’s got a hidden basement – that’s where we’re keeping the metas – and space for a backup laboratory. Felicity – Felicity Smoak, you remember, she came to visit a couple of weeks ago? She took a train in last night, she’s at the warehouse with Caitlin now, installing this amazing computer system for us.”

Barry’s hand finds its way to Harrison’s brow, brushing back a stray lock of hair. It is an intimate gesture, tender.

“When S.T.A.R. Labs is up and running again,” Barry says softly, “we can sync our system. If anything like this ever happens again, we’ve got a place to go – a safehouse. There’s an area I want to convert to living quarters, nothing crazy, just a couple of bedrooms and bathrooms, maybe a kitchenette.”

“It’s not – it isn’t perfect. But it’s the best I could work out on such short notice. And, once S.T.A.R. Labs is up, I’m going to fix it, make it better. I don’t.” Barry stops, swallows audibly, forges ahead. “I can’t do this again. I need to know that there’s somewhere safe for us to go, if everything goes to shit.”

***

The man known as Harrison Wells slams his head into a brick wall. He is careful to angle the hit so that the rough of the stone catches the side of his head, rattling his brain and leaving a bloody smear of scraped up skin by his temple. He punches his own ribs a handful of times, using his superior speed to leave bruises in the shape of fists. A few, solid hits to his mouth cause his teeth to bite into the inner flesh of his lips and cheek. Experimentally, he swishes a bit of saliva in his mouth; it tastes of copper. Satisfied at the damage, he spits the bright, red liquid on the rooftop.

The medical technology in this barbaric era is easy enough to fool; faking a concussion will be child’s play. 

Across the street, Barry Allen stands in his laboratory at the top of the CCPD building. He looks tense, exhaustion at war with the anger that is surely fueling him. His movements are stilted; and Harrison can see a handful of plastic-wrap wrappers scattered atop one of his workstations. It seems that Barry has forgone eating regular meals, relying on Cisco’s nutritional bars to see him through the night.

Joe West stands by the young man’s side, and it appears as though the two are arguing. Or rather, the good detective is rubbing his short hair, a movement of frustration, of helplessness. Whatever he is saying to Barry doesn’t seem to have much effect, because Barry shakes his head, a decisive no, then continues to peer through his microscope.

If Harrison had to guess, Detective West is likely telling Barry that he needs to take a break. The explosion of S.T.A.R. Labs took place at approximately 8 PM the night before. As it is now nearly 8 AM the next day, it’s likely that Barry worked through the night, driven by his worry for Cisco and Harrison, his confusion over the actions of Snart and Eiling, and his guilt at the loss of whichever metahumans were kidnapped.

West lays a hand on Barry’s shoulder, and oh – that’s quite interesting. Barry shrugs the movement off, stepping away from his foster father and shaking his head again, far more vehemently this time. West’s shoulders sag, and he steps forward, breaking Barry’s personal bubble without a thought. The older man pulls his son into a tight, all-encompassing, bear hug that lasts for a few seconds. Barry doesn’t return the hug, from what Harrison can see, but his shoulders lose some of their tension as West releases him and steps back.

Whatever West says next has Barry nodding, a touch hesitant, and finally, the good detective leaves the room. Barry stands motionless for a moment, then turns his attention back to the microscope.

The man known as Harrison Wells touches his bruised ribs. It has been a few minutes since he caused these injuries, enough time that they have started to heal. Any doctor who examines him at this moment will believe that his injuries occurred at least two or three hours prior.

He pulls up the cowl of his suit, stepping forward to the edge of the building and standing in plain view for Barry to see. He vibrates at he waits, a measure of anticipation. His eyes glow, a relic of intimidation.

Barry looks up, and there it is, written so plainly on the young man’s expressive face. Fear. Confusion. Anger. Rage.

Barry will chase him, and events will play out, one way or another. And if Barry chooses Harrison Wells, there is a tiny, yellow pill waiting to be swallowed dry. In a few more minutes, it will appear as though the injuries he gave himself occurred about eight or nine hours ago; that fits in quite accurately with his chosen timeframe.

Across the street, Barry disappears in a flash of red lightning.

The man in yellow zips down the side of the building, a stunning streak of gold.

***

The nurse fusses with his IV. It’s quite unpleasant, but it has only been perhaps two hours since Barry brought him to the hospital. It won’t do for him to wake up so soon, and so he controls his breathing – inhale, exhale – and remains still.

After the nurse has left, Barry scoots his chair up next to Harrison’s bedside and takes hold of his hand once more. He picks up on the steady stream of information he has been imparting to Harrison’s willing ears; it’s quite interesting, the things that have happened in such a short period of time, the impact that these events will have moving forward.

“Felicity did some digging for us,” Barry says softly. “She’s. I mean, Cisco’s good with computers, but she’s something else. She’s looking into Eiling and the metas he stole. Oh!”

Barry stops, squeezing Harrison’s hand in a gesture indicative of his desire for physical comfort. “Um, I don’t know if you knew or not, but he got – um, he got Clyde, Tony, and Hartley. I managed to get Kyle Nimbus and Danton Black safety to the warehouse, but – I don’t know what Eiling’s up to.”

“I want to find the man in yellow – but I think we need to focus on finding Eiling first. Between Clyde’s control over the weather, Tony’s strength, and Hartley’s genius, Eiling could do some serious damage.”

“Plus he’s still got Bette,” the young man adds, sounding especially miserable.

Barry sighs. “The real problem is that according to Felicity, Eiling has an extremely talented hacker working for him. She’s been trying to pin him down since she started her search, but she hasn’t had any luck. Whoever the hacker is, they destroyed all of S.T.A.R. Labs security footage from last night, and we don’t have any leads.”

There is another moment of silence, longer, pronounced. The man known as Harrison Wells would almost think he was alone in the room, save for the fact that Barry still clutches his hand.

“I am so lost right now,” Barry says into the silence of the hospital room. “I don’t – what am I supposed to do? I’m the one who’s supposed to be laying in the hospital bed. Not you. Not Cisco. Me.”

There are tiny beeps from the nearby monitor, the wobbly hiss of unsteady wheels on the linoleum floor, wheelchairs and gurneys and all manner of medical machine on wheels. 

“You warned me,” Barry whispers. “You asked me how I would feel, but I didn’t – I couldn’t imagine this. Is this–? Every time you sat by my bedside. Every time you looked at me and wondered if I was going to wake up. Is this how you felt? Because I – I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ever put you guys in a position to feel like this.”

Barry stands abruptly, still clutching Harrison’s hand like a lifeline. He leans over the hospital bed, and Harrison can feel the warm, dry lips that ghost across his forehead. The lightning between them is an old friend.

“Wake up,” Barry breathes, a prayer. “I can’t do this without you.”

And though the man known as Harrison Wells had planned on faking his unconsciousness for at least another hour, likely more, he finds himself responding to the young man’s plea. Without moving a muscle, without opening his eyes, he says dryly, “I believe I’ve been gypped. Sleeping Beauty didn’t get a kiss to the forehead.”

Barry laughs. It sounds like a sob.

And just as suddenly, the young man is halfway in the hospital bed with the man known as Harrison Wells, pressing several desperately enthusiastic kisses to his lips.

***


	39. [1/1] Interlude: Tweedledum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember that interlude about Tony that no one wanted? Have another! (Only it’s about Clyde, not Tony, so I guess that’s a metaphorical flop...)

***

His first memory is one of being held.

It is cold, the arms that encircle him are skinny, tight. It is dark, there are no stars in the vast blanket of the sky. The chain link fence that circles the empty lot behind the house shakes, a rattle that will lull him to sleep this night and every night that follows. The wind howls. Down the alley, a stray dog echoes the plaintive cry.

He shivers. The arms around him tighten.

“Shh,” the other boy murmurs. “Quiet. Gotta stay quiet.”

Inside the house, he can hear yelling. It is loud, indistinct. A man’s voice, a woman’s voice, raised together, a violent harmony. They are screaming, fighting. The windows shake with the force of it, the sound of something being thrown, being broken.

“Maa,” he whines, and the grip that keeps him frozen lessens. Now there is a hand covering his mouth, stifling. He tastes salt and skin, and he bites at the fingers, unpleasant visitors, most unwelcome. He tastes blood.

The older boy who holds him makes a muted sound of surprise, of pain. Violence to violence, a lesson learned early. It flowers in his cheek, sharp, agonizing, heat rising at the blow. The tears follow swiftly. 

The hand is back on his mouth abruptly, silencing his cries, but a warm arm holds him close. The older boy presses soft, constant kisses to the top of his head, lost in the down of his hair. “Shh, shh. ‘m sorry, baby.” The other boy trembles.

One kiss, then another, and a whisper, “Shh. Quiet, stay quiet. So sorry.”

It is cold, but that is not the only reason he shivers. The hand on his mouth makes it hard to breathe, but the other boy’s hand doesn’t smell bad, a strange combination of freshly cut grass and the creamy peanut butter sandwiches they had for dinner.

The heat of his cheek throbs against the cool air. He nestles deeper into the warmth of the older boy’s body, suppressing a sniffle. The windows above rattle, the yelling continues.

His first memory is that of being held.

***

_The Mardon brothers are bad news. That’s what everyone says._

***

“They’re stupid birds,” his brother says, making a face.

“You liked ‘em yesterday,” Clyde replies, and he makes his toy plane whoosh in the air. It dances, twirls, performs an impressive barrel loop. The wings cut through the air with lethal precision.

“Hah.” It’s a funny noise. Not quite a laugh, but sort of agreement.

He looks up to see his brother grinning, that cocky smirk. Mark’s too cool, with his leather jackets and his stolen cigarettes. Too cool to spend his nights hanging out with his dumb kid brother, maybe, but that’s never stopped him before.

“Me and them – we had some differences. I liked ‘em yesterday, ‘til I found out they didn’t like–” Mark pauses, rolls his shoulders with a shrug. “–well, that doesn’t matter.”

Clyde makes machine gunfire noises – _pa-pa-pa-pa-pa_ – and the plane crashes to the wooden floor of their shared bedroom. He looks up and says, “They didn’t like me.” It isn’t a question.

“Yeah, well.” A not answer, for a not question. Mark makes a face, then says, “Like I said, they’re all stupid. Don’t need ‘em anyway.” He pauses. “You got room for a co-pilot?”

***

_Everyone is stupid. Mark isn’t bad news, Mark is his big brother. Clyde might not be a genius, but it’s pretty simple math. Mark is the only person in this shit world who has ever looked out for him, taken care of him. Therefore, Mark is the only person in this shit world who matters._

***

Clyde stares down at the bloody face of the boy who teased him for his cheap sneakers. They are in the schoolyard’s playground; it is lunchtime. There are children in a circle around them, cheering and jostling for a better view. They are vultures, drawn to the scent of stagnant decay, poised to pick clean the bones.

His knuckles are sore, scraped and bloody. He caught them on the other boy’s teeth when he was pounding in his great, fat face. His fingers tingle as he rubs his palm against the side of his pants. Violence to violence, a lesson in his blood.

(he was just waiting for Mark to get done, this is not his school, this is not his fault)

“Move, get the fuck outta my way,” his brother is snarling, baring his teeth. This crowd is older and bigger than Clyde, though his brother fits right in. Mark pushes and shoves them out of his way. His elbows are sharp, the muscles of his forearms strained. 

“Christ,” Mark spits as he comes to the center of the circle, toes the limp body of the boy on the ground with something akin to distaste. “Christ,” his brother repeats; “The fuck did you do, Clyde?”

(mark picked this school to sell his pot because it is full of upscale, rich babies, fat faces to match their fat cash)

Clyde frowns as his brother grabs his arm and tugs him away from the scene. He protests, “Hey–”

“C’mon, you dumb shit, lunch lady is coming this way–”

And then they’re running. Or rather, his brother is running, and he’s got a vice grip on Clyde’s wrist that nearly wrenches his shoulder from the socket as he’s following, stumbling his way along. There’s some noise behind them, a cacophony comprised of the angry telltale tattle of children, perhaps even the frustrated horror of the lunch lady.

There are alleys, twists and turns. These are streets that he knows, though not as well as his brother. Clyde is learning, though.

A few blocks away, when nothing follows them but silence, his brother slows his mad dash. Mark takes a few weary steps, leans against the wall. He is sweating heavily, but between them, Clyde is the one who is out of breath, panting at the exertion.

“Think we – got away,” Clyde volunteers, still gasping.

“Your luck’s gonna’ run out one of these days,” Mark grumbles.

“Not today,” Clyde replies shortly, beginning to catch his breath.

Their eyes meet. There is no logic, no reason, but Clyde is grinning, exhilarated. Mark returns the look, and they are both laughing. They lean against the wall, shoulders shaking, and this? This feeling is the very best. Freedom and energy and sharing it with the only person in the world who matters.

When they are both in control again, coming down off the euphoric rush, Mark finally asks, “The fuck did you beat that kid’s face in for anyway? He was twice your size, bro.”

Clyde shrugs. “He made fun of my sneakers. And I liked his watch.”

“His watch?”

It is with the smallest thrill of pleasure that Clyde produces the kid’s brightly colored watch from his back pocket. There is the picture of an airplane on the face, bold and cartoonish. He holds it out, dangles it in front of his brother until the other boy caves and makes a grab for it.

“Stole it,” Clyde says smugly, and the look Mark gives him is heavy with consideration.

Later, Clyde feels nothing when he learns that the boy in the schoolyard had to be hospitalized. The kid made fun of Clyde’s sneakers, and he had a nice watch. Beyond that, he doesn’t exist.

***

_The bank robbing? It’s thrilling. It’s free money and it’s fun. It’s like playing Cowboys and Indians, but with real guns and big payoffs. He could do this every day until the day he dies, and he would die happy. One step ahead of the law because his big brother is smart, one step ahead because Clyde’s a lucky son of a bitch._

_A lifetime, Mark’s been telling him his luck is going to run dry._

***

When Clyde wakes up in a little, glass room, he’s confused. He’s afraid. He settles on anger.

He struggles to his feet, raises his hand, tries to summon a bolt of lightning to shatter the glass. Nothing happens. It’s like he’s been disconnected, cut off from the sky. He can’t access his abilities. The movement does jostle his shoulder, and agony shoots from off from the area in every direction. It zaps the nerves of his arm, causing his fingers to spasm and clench, an uncontrolled response. It grabs at his heart, squeezes, and for a moment the room spins as he fights for a breath.

He catches it. His uninjured hand curls to a fist and he pounds it against the wall, screaming, “YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO GOD!”

No one answers him. The room is quiet, no matter how hard he rages.

***

_After the plane crash, he goes a little crazy._

_Maybe._

_Just a tad._

***

“Why is it – I mean – why do you think you’re a god?” the man in red asks. 

He stands on one side of the glass, Clyde stands on the other. It’s fascinating to be so close to the man in red, watching his body blur, vibration distorting every part of him, even his voice. 

The man has blue eyes. Even blurry, that much is clear.

After a day in solitary confinement, Clyde’s feeling pretty generous with his words. He replies, “Am I not?” His confusion in this is honest. “I summon the storm. I call down the lightning. I ask the rain to fall and the wind to howl, and it answers me.”

The man in red tilts his head to the side and says, “I’ll agree that you’re special. I want to know – why a god?”

“Not just a man, not anymore,” Clyde replies. “I’m something _more_. Something _better_.” His lip curl back and he shares his best sneer; Mark would be so proud. He says, “I can kill with a thought, yeah? So what am I, if not God?”

The man in red shakes his head. It’s funny to watch, the exaggerated back and forth movement of a man whose whole face never stops moving.

“I’m the fastest man alive,” the man says slowly. “I can do the impossible. I’m something more, something better. Do you agree?”

“You’re like me,” Clyde agrees. “I knew that.”

“I caught you,” the man says. He’s very deliberate, each word a choice. “For all your power, I was – am – better than you.”

Clyde nods, then laughs, “Better than God,” because it’s true.

“But. Just because I’m better than you – just because of that – does that give me the right to take your life?” the man asks quietly, even gently. “Just because I _can_ , does that automatically mean I should?”

“Are you a vengeful God?” Clyde frowns. That’s the important question, the one that might lead to an answer.

“I’m not a god at all,” the man in red says. “I’m. I’m faster than any other man, and I’m pretty smart. I’ve got people – good people – who help me. I didn’t beat you because I’m a god. I beat you–”

The man pauses, almost as though he is letting the full weight of his words sink before laying the next layer. “I beat you – because I’m human. Gods don’t fail. I did, because I’m just a man. And then I picked myself up from the dust and I tried again.”

Clyde frowns, looking away.

On the other side of the glass, the man takes a step forward. He says, “I don’t know. Maybe – maybe you can take a minute to think about that, before throwing yourself back into the delusion of godhood. It’s not. I mean, I don’t think being God sounds all that great.”

“It sounds. Well – lonely, actually. Yeah, it’s. I mean, I think it sounds lonely.”

After a minute of silence, the man asks, “Are you lonely, Clyde?”

And Clyde cannot bite back the reply, no matter how much it exposes him. He is confused and scared, so he settles on anger. “My big brother’s dead. What the fuck else would I be?”

Another spot of silence, one that stretches on for longer than the first. Finally, the man in red says quietly, “I’m sorry.”

***

_When he woke up after the plane crash, he’d thought that he’d died as a man and woken as a god. He remembers the man in red, he remembers getting shot. Waking up in that little glass room – well, maybe the second time, he’d died as a god and been reborn as a man._

***

Over time, Clyde comes to startling realization that the man in red is – despite superpowered evidence to the contrary – human. More human, in fact, than anyone Clyde has ever met. 

In the beginning, Clyde greeted each visit with stoic silence. It was easier to ignore the man than it was to admit that maybe he was right. Maybe he turned to playing God because after Mark died, what else was left? He’d spent his whole life as part of an equation; Mark plus Clyde equals the Mardon brothers. Without that – without his older brother to ground him, keep him sane, well–

It takes time, but the man in red is persistent. Eventually, they have a second conversation. The constant silence has taken its toll on Clyde, because when once he opens his mouth, he finds he cannot still his tongue. It’s as though all the words that were trapped inside of him rejoice at this unexpected freedom, spilling out of him without conscious thought. Feelings, things that he wouldn’t normally voice, the confusion and the fear, they spill out of him like liquid from an overturned cup. 

The man in red listens. He’s a very good listener, avid, engaged. 

And the weird part? He doesn’t judge.

One conversation leads to another, then another, and another. The topics range from the philosophical to the mundane, with nothing in common to connect them save for the two people who speak. Everyday, like clockwork, the man will visit. It actually gets to the point where Clyde waits for each visit, anticipation churning in his stomach. 

It is the strangest sensation, the tightening of his chest with this – desire? Desire to know more about this mysterious man in red. Desire to know about his interests, about his beliefs and his morals. Desire to know what ground they have in common, and how to breach the barriers of the things that make them different. It’s part of the reason, in fact, that when the man in red offers to bring him books to alleviate the boredom of solitary confinement, Clyde readily accepts.

The first book that the man in red brings him is by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It is the Complete Sherlock Holmes, an old, leather-bound book. The corners are rounded with age, the pages thumbed repeatedly, crinkled and creased.

This book was – is – loved.

It is just over a thousand pages in length. Clyde reads it in just under a week.

***

_Clyde isn’t an idiot, thanks. He’s heard of Stockholm Syndrome. But it isn’t – this. There is a void that Mark’s death left in his heart. The man in red is just someone who seems to be able to fill it._

***

When a group of men and women explode the wall of his cell, it’s unexpected. Dressed entirely in black and armed to the teeth, they are clearly part of some government agency. What they want from him, though – that’s the real question.

As the wall to his cell shatters, a great weight lifts from him. He wasn’t even fully aware of it, of this reconnection to the moisture in the air. It presses against the skin of arms like a lover’s touch, the hairs prickle up. The charge of electricity thrums above him, he can taste it in the florescent lights. 

It leaves him stunned, just for a moment. A moment of confusion, not that it should matter. It has been months, but he can take this strange team down with a wave of his hand. Not as a God, but as a man. An extraordinary man, with extraordinary gifts.

He wonders if these men and women, dressed in black, hurt his man in red. The thought – well, it actually enrages him. His brother is already dead, but the man in red – the man who took the time to talk to him, who fed him and gave him books, who showed him that it was better to be an imperfect man than a lonely god– 

If these people hurt him, he will kill them.

It’s a curious thought. He’s usually pretty impartial to violence. It’s just something he does. So this specific desire – to hurt for these people for the sake of, oh, what _is_ this feeling?

He’d have done it for Mark, though. That much he knows.

The tranq dart hits his neck with all the subtlety of the lightning bolt he was going to summon from the heavens, and he crumples to the floor. As he blacks out he finds his mind wandering. The first time, he found himself with the extraordinary ability to call down the fury of the oncoming storm. The second time, he found himself trapped by an extraordinary man in red. 

Third time is a charm, isn’t it? When he wakes up again, what strange, impossible, and extraordinary thing will greet him next?

It’s weird. Clyde finds he’s actually sort of thrilled to find out.

***

_And after that? He’ll figure out if these people hurt his man in red. If they did, he will summon a storm the likes of which is seen perhaps once in a century. He will batter their bodies with wind, scorch them with lightning, drown them on dry land. He will kill them. He will kill them all._

***


	40. [1/5] Episode 9: Little Boy Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm a broken record, but seriously, you're all amazing. Like, totally amazing, and I adore you with my all of me.

***

“Again,” Leonard Snart says, in a voice that doesn’t leave room for argument. He eyes Lisa, who has an innocent look on her face, and Mick, who remains expressionless. “Explain it to me again, how an easy run to the docks ended up with an impossible man stuffed in the trunk of my car?”

The three of them are still in the cabin, though a corner of Len’s mind is running down his list of secondary safehouses in the area, deciding which one will best serve his needs. The Reverse-Flash knows where they are currently located, which is an excellent reason to move as soon as possible. Still, the actualization of this particular thought has been temporarily sidetracked by his desire to understand what exactly occurred in the scant few hours since Lisa and Mick left the cabin.

Len paces at the foot of the bed. Lisa is sprawled atop the comforter, having repacked the medical supplies she used to patch him up; she uses the metal first-aid box as a makeshift pillow, fingers laced behind her head. Mick is leaning against the wall. He listens, occasionally interjects, but his eyes are constantly moving, shifting between the bedroom door and the single window on the far wall.

It’s good, having partners to watch his back. 

“Okay,” Lisa says, a hint of exasperation in her voice. “So for the record, I think it’s a total douche bag thing to do, wearing sunglasses at night–”

“They’re not sunglasses,” Mick growls. He fiddles with the goggles around his neck for a moment before letting his hand fall back to his side.

“Whatever,” Lisa replies, dismissive. “You use them to protect your eyes from your flame throwing gun-thing-of-doom, right?”

Mick grunts, an affirmation.

Lisa continues, “Which is basically like a mini-sun that you direct at people to burn them to death. So they’re pretty much sunglasses. Shut up.” When Mick opens his mouth again, Lisa holds up one finger in the universal gesture for “wait.” Or maybe that’s “warning,” Len’s not quite sure.

Without pausing, Lisa adds, “You told this story already – twice! – so let me give it a shot, okay?”

Mick sighs, then settles back against the wall. It’s a pained, long suffering sound that Len knows well. He’s made it often enough, always in conjunction with conversation and his little sister.

Lisa opens her mouth to continue, pauses, frowns. “Where was I?”

His partners are children. Actual fucking children.

“Sunglasses,” Len prompts. “Douche bags.”

“Right. So yeah, who wears sunglasses at night? Douche bags, that’s who. You know the sort – those two-bit criminals trying to pretend like they’re cool. Also, Mick–” Lisa purses her lips together, blows Mick a kiss to soften her words, “who is _not_ a douche bag, he wears them because he has his flame-gun. Forgivable, sort of. Anyway, we’re in the car heading to the docks and he puts his sunglasses on–”

“Goggles,” Mick sighs. “At least call them goggles.”

“–he puts his sungoggles on–” Lisa says without missing a beat. 

“Fuck,” Mick groans, and Len can clearly see him resolving to not say anything else for the rest of Lisa’s story. Which won’t work, because it’s Lisa, but Len kind of admires him – briefly – for the delusion.

“–and I just _know_ he’s going to be his amazingly hot-headed self when we get to the docks, because one of Vasquez’ boys is going to be stupid and say something about it, because it’s fucking _night_ time and who wears sungoggles–”

“Glasses,” Mick concedes in a voice that tells Len that there is no God.

“–and who wears sunglasses at night?” Lisa asks.

She pauses, and Len realizes this question isn’t supposed to be rhetorical. He obligingly recites back, “Douche bags. Two-bit criminals.”

“And Mick,” Mick adds, defeated.

“Right,” Lisa says. “So I didn’t want anyone to say anything, because Mick isn’t a douche bag or a two-bit criminal, so I found a pair of sunglasses in the glove-box of the car and put them on.”

Momentarily confused, Len asks, “Why?”

“Solidarity,” Lisa says, and she grins. “Duh.”

“And what does this have to do with the guy in the trunk?” Len prompts. 

“Getting to it, Lenny. Geeze.” Even relaxing on the bed, Lisa manages to move her head in an elegant sort of way, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. “So, we get to the docks, rocking our fucking bad-ass sunglasses like a pair of serious douche bags, and no one says anything about it, because they know if they say something about me, Mick will flip his shit, and vice versa.”

Mick nods, once, and Len has to suppress a smile because at least they look out for each other. Even if they are children.

“So we do the deal – open the trunk, get the cash–” Lisa says.

Mick cuts in, “Guns are in the backseat of the car, by the way.”

“Right,” Lisa nods. “Hidden under a tarp, because I sure as shit wasn’t going to put them in the trunk with the impossible man. That would be stupid.”

“The impossible man,” Len says, resisting the urge to strangle them both. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Where did you find him?”

“At the docks,” Mick replies, as if that is the logical conclusion to Lisa’s story.

Lisa shakes her head. “Yeah, Lenny. It was the damnedest fucking thing. Like, one minute everything is fine. Vasquez and his crew are there, the deal goes down smooth. They have the cash, we have the guns. And then everyone is just flipping their shit. Like, pulling guns and knives on each other, throwing punches, breaking faces left and right.”

Len freezes, a sudden, jerky movement. He looks over his little sister with a critical eye, then glances at Mick. Neither of them appear to be injured, and surely they would have mentioned it while Lisa had the first-aid kit already open to tend Len’s wounds, but– 

“Vasquez and his crew _attacked_ you?” he finally asks, incredulous.

“No, Lenny,” Lisa says, and she grins like it’s the best joke in the world. “They attacked _each other_. Like, Vasquez and his second in command – what the fuck’s his name again, Mick?”

“Jhonen?” Mick hazards. The name has Len drawing up a fuzzy, mental visual of a young man with a lot of ink on his arms and a fairly level head.

“Yeah, him. Him and Vasquez, they were tearing into each other like they couldn’t fucking _stand_ one another. The rest of his boys, all of them, turning on each other like animals. Seriously, brother mine, I have never seen anything like it.” Lisa shakes her head, still smiling. Len can see it for what it is – disbelief and fear and excitement, all rolled into one.

“Same,” Mick agrees.

Lisa’s description of the scene strikes a chord within Len’s mind. It’s – didn’t he read something about that a couple of weeks ago? He closes his eyes, trying to visualize the documents. They were – police reports. Mick gave them to him, actually, in their quest to track down impossible humans. A couple of incident reports, a handful of crime scenes. Groups of people broke out into mob mentality, doing violence to one another indiscriminantly and for no apparent reason. And there was some surveillance footage, as well. In the middle of each event, unaffected by the rage around him, a man.

Keeping an eye on his sister, he asks, “By any chance, is the impossible man in the trunk a scrawny guy? Dressed in nondescript browns. Dark hair, a funny cut, almost like a bowl. Wearing red, round glasses. Overall, sort of – beatnik?”

Lisa scrambles to sit upright, staring. “How the fuck did you pull that one out of your ass, Lenny?”

To the side, Mick makes an “ah” sound, enlightened. “Impossible man was already on your radar.” A pause where Mick shakes his head. “Damn, I remember those files.”

“Lisa,” Len says, urgent. “You and Mick. Neither of you was affected.”

“Nope,” Lisa replies, settling back against the comforter. “The world went to shit around us, and this mousy little dude waltzes by, looking for all the world like he owns the docks. Went straight to where Vasquez dropped the cash from our deal and started stuffing it into his man-purse.”

“I was going to shoot him,” Mick adds.

“Well, that would have been effective, but messy. I walked up behind him in the confusion, clocked him on the head, knocked him out.” Lisa shrugs. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. And as soon as he went down, everyone went back to normal.”

“Stuffed him in the trunk instead,” Mick continues. He smirks. “Might have hit his head a couple of times, trying to get him to fit.”

“That trunk is huge,” Len points out. “And empty.”

“Yeah,” Mick agrees. He shrugs. “So?”

Seeing the argument for what it is – a lost cause – Len switches back to his original train of thought. “Neither of you were affected by him,” he says. “By his – I don’t know, what would you call it?”

Lisa and Mick glance at each other, then say in tandem, “Mojo.”

“By his mojo,” Len says, wrinkling his nose. “All those incident reports. All those people. This guy’s ability seems to work on everyone, and yet – here we are. What makes you so different?”

This time, Lisa rolls her eyes at him. “I already told you! The douchey sunglasses, Lenny. Try and keep up.”

***

In the end, it takes a couple of hours. Though undignified, it takes a little convincing, a touch of cajoling, perhaps even a tad of – ugh – wheedling. The man known as Harrison Wells works every angle he can think of, eventually appealing to Barry’s own dislike of being confined to a hospital bed as the final straw. Finally, though not in complete agreement, at least in _acceptance_ , Barry goes to find his primary doctor to inform her that Harrison is going to check himself out of the hospital.

It isn’t as though Harrison can remain here more than twenty-four hours anyway. At that point, his little yellow pill will have worn off completely, meaning that any doctor who examines him will be treated to quite a surprise. Advanced healing, bordering on regeneration – it isn’t the kind of thing that’s easily missed. In order to protect his secret, he cannot be trapped in this hospital. Caitlin will be, if not easy, at least _easier_ , to fool.

“–against medical advice!” One of the nurses huffs, as if Harrison’s desire to leave is a personal affront to the man.

“Yes, I _am_ aware of this hospital’s stance on the matter.” Harrison resists the urge to roll his eyes. “However, my injuries are not severe enough to warrant this level of observation. And one of my employees is more than qualified to keep me under observation. Despite the unlikely threat of a relapse, I would much rather spend my days recovering in more – familiar – surroundings.”

The nurse makes another small noise, exasperation and irritation succinctly rolled into one “ugh,” and stomps from the room in a manner more befitting a toddler than a professional. The man known as Harrison Wells takes a sort of petty joy in the man’s frustration. Not nearly as satisfying as, say, beating in Captain Cold’s smug face, but then very few things meet that standard.

The nurse brushes against Barry on his way out, who is just now returning with what looks to be a cup of coffee in his hands.

The young man eyes the chair by Harrison’s hospital bed, then shrugs and settles next to Harrison’s side, sitting on the bed itself. The mattress dips under his weight, and he offers Harrison a sip of coffee. It smells decent, despite having been brewed in a hospital – dark roast, likely generously plied with both cream and sugar, as per Barry’s preference.

Harrison accepts, takes a small sip. As he does, Barry says, “Doctor said that she’ll send someone in with the paperwork as soon as she can – knowing hospitals, that probably won’t be for another hour, as least.”

“An accurate estimation,” Harrison replies. “Is there any pressing reason that we need to wait for this paperwork?” He takes a second, slow sip, then extends the cup to Barry. Barry accepts easily, his lips closing down over the edge of the Styrofoam cup as he gulps the hot beverage.

Caffeine, especially in such a small dose, doesn’t affect speedsters, but Barry must like the taste. He finishes half the cup in one go.

“I know – I mean, I get wanting to leave. Hospitals suck. But your wheelchair is still tied up at S.T.A.R. Labs,” Barry points out, fiddling with the half-full cup. “And it’s still an active crime scene.”

Harrison shrugs, “I’ll be using a far less sophisticated spare until my chair is released. The Paratrans-Plus driver already has instructions to bring it with him when he picks us up.” He pauses, then says, “As far as my usual chair goes – why, exactly, it is being considered evidence?”

“Standard procedure,” Barry replies with a quiet sigh. He smiles, apologetic, then continues, “And I know you already told the police everything when they were here earlier, but seeing as how you left out the – ah – the man in the yellow suit–”

Barry stops. He fidgets, shifting the weight of the coffee cup in between his palms, unbalanced even to the naked eye. 

Harrison opens his mouth to ask what the young man is thinking, but doesn’t get the opportunity. Barry’s voice is a whisper, but it cuts through the white noise of the hospital easily.

“He’s back.” Barry inhales sharply, once. He doesn’t look up. “Oh god, he’s back.”

And that’s – well, it’s amazing. The slight widening of Barry’s lovely blue eyes, the shallow breaths that mark the beginning stages of panic, the rapid fire of a pulse that threatens to explode the young man’s heart within his chest. The paleness of his skin, the tremble in his bones, the sweet stink of fear. The abject _terror_ , laid bare, brimming with weakness, with shame.

It is everything that the man known as Harrison Wells has ever dreamed of. He has waited _fifteen years_ for this.

So why then – why does it feel like he has just kicked himself in his own teeth?

Barry remains immobile, frozen where he sits atop the thin sheets of the hospital bed. Harrison reaches out, taking the coffee cup from clammy hands and setting it aside on the nearby rolling table. He gathers both of Barry’s hands in his own and commands, “Breathe.”

It is the voice he uses on the coms when instructing Barry on how to take down their latest metahuman threat. It is confidence and authority. It is the voice of a mentor, and it is not to be argued with.

Barry sucks in a breath, a stutter in his chest.

“Again, Barry. Breathe for me.”

A second breath, then a third.

“In and out,” Harrison says, and he takes one of Barry’s hands and places it on his chest so that the young man can feel the rise and fall, can match the rhythm.

An inhale, an exhale.

 _How strange_ , the man known as Harrison Wells muses, focused on breathing, and on helping Barry to breathe. _How very – unexpected._

This is the first time Barry Allen has ever followed him, followed his lead. The young man before him is so _trusting_ that it almost hurts to watch. Harrison doesn’t stop, though, nor does he pull away. 

Because Barry is breathing. Is calming, visibly. The color is returning to his face, his eyes are losing their lost and glassy shine. The hand on Harrison’s chest feels like Sisyphus’ boulder, unforgiving, even as Barry smiles weakly.

“I – thanks.” Barry’s lips do a small twist, an awkward, wobbly little thing. He pulls both of his hands away, the one trapped by Harrison’s hand, the one against Harrison’s heart.

“Perhaps we should put this conversation on hold until a later time,” Harrison suggests helplessly. “Or perhaps I can – write it down for you. A report. That might be easier–”

Barry smiles again, easier this time. More natural. “I’m – I’ll be okay. It’s just a lot to process, with everything that’s happened since – God, was it really only yesterday?” The young man shakes his head. “No, I need to. I need to _deal_ with all of this. I can’t just – hide. Not from the man who – who killed my–”

“He calls himself the Reverse-Flash,” Harrison says. “I – perhaps that might be easier for you.”

“Reverse-Flash,” Barry repeats, then snorts, full of depreciation. “And now I share half my name with a monster.”

The man known as Harrison Wells has called himself that and far worse – because it’s the truth – for years. Those words shouldn’t sting, but spoken so innocently from Barry’s lips – oh, they do.

“If he is a monster,” Harrison replies, injecting a levity into his voice that he does not feel, “then he is indeed your reverse, wouldn’t you say? A speedster, like you, but your opposite in every other way.”

“I have – God, I have so many questions. We need to – to talk about what happened. With him. With Len. With Eiling.” Barry nibbles his lower lip, eyelashes sweeping down as he looks to his left and away from Harrison. This is – guilt, perhaps? “I’m sorry. I’m falling apart on you and _you_ were the one who was hurt. You and Cisco. I don’t have any right to–”

“You have every right,” Harrison replies swiftly, recognizing this particular aspect of Barry’s personality quite easily. “You may not have been _physically_ injured in this most recent – altercation – but you _were_ hurt, Barry. I dare you to deny me that.”

Barry continues to bite his lip, but he doesn’t voice another protest. A small victory, for now. 

The young man is so quick to set those he cares for above himself, but Saint Barry does not need to equal Barry the Martyr. In fact, it is a trait that the man known as Harrison Wells will take great pains to stamp out. The world has but one place for self-sacrificing idiots – the cemetery.

Finally, Harrison asks, “You said there is – a warehouse?”

Barry, grateful to drop the previous conversation, replies eagerly, “Yeah! I mean, yeah, it’s not perfect, but – the paratrans-driver-guy, he’s supposed to drop us off at your house. I can have Caitlin come pick us up? I’d like to show it to you.”

Harrison nods. “Acceptable. We have a little time to kill before the driver gets here, I believe. I would like to visit Cisco.”

“Oh!” Barry shakes his head. “God, I’m an idiot. Yeah, um. He’s a couple floors up in ICU. He’s pretty beat up, but he’s. I mean, he’ll be okay.” Softly, “He has to be.” Then, louder, “Anyway, I know I saw a couple of wheelchairs by the nurse's station, I’ll see if I can borrow one for you–”

“Barry.”

Barry stops abruptly. He blinks, his expressive face voicing the question without a word spoken.

The man known as Harrison Wells offers a faint smile. “Breathe.”

The young man sucks a breath in through his teeth on command, releases it slowly. “Okay,” Barry says, and his shoulders lose a little of the tension riding there. He returns Harrison’s smile, still hesitant, still wary – but stronger than before – and repeats, “Okay.”

***


	41. [2/5] Episode 9: The Fiddlers Three

***

The man known as Harrison Wells has managed to survive, thrive even, in an era not his own. Part of that can be attributed to observing social routines and cultural rituals and implementing them into his daily life. Simply put, he knows the value of keeping up appearances.

For example, when an employee, coworker, or friend is hospitalized, visiting and offering support is expected. Over the last several years, he has visited a handful of employees and coworkers in the hospital. For each individual he visited, there were at least a dozen more who didn’t warrant a personal showing. Instead, he sent balloons, flower arrangements, fruit baskets – sometimes separately, occasionally in combination.

The mundane practice annoys him, honestly. If one is hospitalized and is expected to recover, what is the point in visiting? It isn’t as though his presence affects recovery time in any way, and it seems far more prudent to spend his time working on projects that might actually matter. And if the person hospitalized is ill enough to expect the worst? A single visit to say a final farewell or offer respect makes sense, but the idea that he should languish by someone’s bedside until he hears their death rattle in their chest is absurd.

A small, exasperated corner of his mind points out that he has spent more than his fair share of nights standing vigil by Barry’s bedside at S.T.A.R. Labs. When the young man’s stubbornness has landed him yet another injury that would have killed almost anyone else. When he lays pale and still on the sterile sheets and Harrison watches his chest rise and fall, hypnotic and comforting. When there is nothing to be done but wait and observe.

But – it’s different when it’s Barry. Barry is important.

The man known as Harrison Wells feels his stomach twist at the thought, a physical rebellion. He pushes down the nausea, moves beyond his discomfort, because it’s _fine_. He is fine, and admitting Barry’s worth is not something to fret over. Harrison is a man of logic, of reason. 

Barry _is_ important. Without Barry, there is no speedforce. There isn’t anything more to it than that, and he brushes the thought aside to deal with his current dilemma.

“You MONSTER!”

When he first suggested visiting Cisco, he had done so in order to keep up appearances. He has a total of three people with whom he interacts on a daily basis: Barry, Cisco, and Caitlin. Any one of them warrants the stereotypical response linked to friends, even family, in a hospital; it would be difficult to explain his reasoning if he ignored the opportunity to visit. As it so happens, today presents a unique opportunity to complete this social nicety. He is already _in_ the hospital, and he has some time to spare as he waits for his driver.

Had he known that Cisco already had company – that three visitors were lying in wait, ready to scream obscenities at him, red-faced, nearly frothing at the mouth in their collective fury – well. He would have chosen a different day to visit.

“It’s all your fault!” the woman howls. She clutches her oversized handbag to her chest, fingers tight around the loopy handles, looking as though she would like nothing better than to beat him over the head. “My baby is – he’s–” she pauses, distraught. Her face is furious, splotchy red, and she screeches, “Because of YOU!”

Beside him, Barry freezes, stunned by the unexpected onslaught. 

Harrison finds himself suppressing a sigh. Appearances are important, but he values his eardrums more. Self-preservation will always rank highest amongst the factors that motivate him.

***

As Len works, he considers the impossible man in the trunk of the car. He thinks about the failed outcome of kidnapping Harrison Wells, and the wealth of information revealed by the monster known as the Reverse-Flash. He ponders a handful of local safehouses, weighing pros and cons, and he never stops thinking about Wells’ wallet and phone – about Lisa’s fingerprints on both – and what he needs to do to resolve the situation.

First, though, they have to move. This cabin is compromised.

None of them have spent enough time here to settle in. There is very little to physically pack, but there are signs of the cabin having been recently occupied that need to be erased. 

“Seriously, Lenny?” Lisa wrinkles her nose, appalled. She makes quick work of wiping down the doorknobs, handles, and counters for fingerprints. “Do I have to?”

“If you’ll recall, I did it at the last safehouse,” Len replies, unimpressed. “You had no complaints then.”

“Uhg,” comes the succinct, unhappy response. “ _Fine_.” His little sister flounces through the cabin’s front door, clutching her cleaning supplies to her chest. He listens to her heavy footfall, and he visualizes her stomping to the outhouse, her face twisted in an expression of pure disgust.

Her expression certainly isn’t going to improve when she actually _reaches_ the outhouse and tentatively pushes the wooden door open. By Len’s estimation, Mick was the last one to use it.

Neither Len nor Mick are strangers to this work. Len himself is currently sterilizing the broom closet where he kept Wells; should the CCPD find their way to this cabin, there will be nothing to prove the good doctor was held hostage. He also sprays down the chair where Wells sat, scrubbing it for fingerprints. 

Outside, Lisa wails, horrified, “Oh my fucking GOD!” and Len smothers a smile.

Satisfied, he stashes the wooden monstrosity in the kitchen, hiding it in plain sight with the rest of the chairs that encircle the table. It isn’t perfect – a full sweep of the cabin will probably turn up a handful of fingerprints for all three of them – but it’s enough to make the CCPD’s job a bit more difficult. At this point, Len is wholeheartedly in favor of anything that buys them more time.

Mick is currently in the bedroom, making sure that Lisa’s impromptu doctoring session hasn’t left any traces of blood. The older man has already taken care of the kitchen, transporting a few six packs of beers from the refrigerator to the nondescript car where the impossible man – still unconscious, judging by the lack of noise – is currently being held. He’d grabbed up the trash bag there and proceeded to sweep the rest of the cabin. The rags and paper towels that Lisa and Len are currently using will be collected before they leave, and they’ll ditch the bag in a dumpster on their way to the next safehouse.

Len does a quick mental inventory. The only other items he brought to the cabin are – the tools of torture. The ones he’d planned to use on Wells. Seeing as they have a second man in the trunk, there is no sense in wasting what’s already prepared. He grabs a spare trash bag and throws everything in except for the car battery. Because of the bulk and the weight, he carries that separately as he loads them into the backseat of the car.

This song and dance is an old hat, comfortable and worn. In total, it takes perhaps thirty minutes. When they are done, the three of them stand outside. Len locks the cabin door, then turns. There are two vehicles parked outside, the van and the car. Len looks them over with a critical eye. “Mick,” he says, “You good with the van?”

“Yeah, buddy,” Mick replies, pulling two sets of keys out of his pocket. He keeps one, tosses the other to Lisa. “You want me to follow?”

Len nods. “We’ll need to wipe the van down for fingerprints and stash it somewhere, but that can wait. Safehouse first.”

They part ways, piling into their respective vehicles. Lisa slips into the driver’s seat, making minor adjustments to the seat and mirrors, while Len settles into the passenger seat, grateful for the respite. His ribs ache badly, and his eyes burn with exhaustion. It’s been a hell of a night.

Len gives his little sister the address of a small warehouse in the industrial district of the city, and he is lulled by the deep rumble of the engine as she starts the car. He is asleep before they hit the main road.

***

The man known as Harrison Wells instantly recognizes the vicious harpy hurling insults at him from across the room. Though he has never had the – pleasure – of meeting any of these three individuals in person, he has Gideon keep loose tabs on everyone connected to his team.

The woman, the one who is doing the majority of the heavy lifting in this verbal assault, is Catalina Ramon, Cisco’s mother. To her left, Hugo Ramon, Cisco’s father, tries gently to collect her attention. It’s a half-effort at best, more to keep up the appearance of caring than to stop the woman from airing her grievances.

And there, standing silent and vigilant by the hospital bed, Dante Ramon, Cisco’s brother. 

Barry is like a statue Harrison’s side, unblinking, unmoving. Though he and Cisco have been friends for months, apparently the young engineer has never revealed an in-depth look at his family life, because Barry is – frozen. Confused.

Though the woman’s voice – and that is an incredibly generous word for such a painfully, high-pitched sound – grates on Harrison’s ears, he attempts to keep a civil tongue as he interjects, “Ah, I don’t believe we’ve met, Mrs.–”

“Ramon. We’re Cisco’s _family_ ,” Catalina grates out, as if this fact somehow gives her license to rupture all eardrums in her vocal range. “And you! You’re the monster who nearly killed him!”

The woman’s shrieking has begun to draw notice. From where he sits, Harrison can see several of the nurses and orderlies exchanging glances, and one of them heads for the room, confidence and irritation visible in every step she takes.

Cisco’s father spots this as well; he beings to sooth his wife’s temper in earnest. “Cat,” Hugo says, gingerly touching her shoulder, “ _Mi amor_ , you must calm yourself. This is a hospital, and no matter how much this man may deserve your anger, there are others who are resting.”

Catalina sucks in a deep breath, clearly willing to unleash her ire on her husband, but she pauses when she notices the nurse who now stands in doorway.

“Is everything alright, ma’am?” the nurse asks, seeing the attention in the room shift. The expression on her face says, very clearly, that if the answer is anything but ‘yes,’ heads will roll.

Cisco’s mother makes a face, lips pinched and twisted, nose scrunched, eyes narrow. “Everything is _fine_ ,” she replies, lying through her teeth.

“Why don’t we got for a walk down to the cafeteria,” Hugo suggest as the nurse backs away from the doorway. “You haven’t eaten anything today. And I’m sure when we get back–” here, Cisco’s father glares at both Harrison and Barry, “–we’ll be able to visit our boy _uninterrupted_.”

The man places his hand on his wife’s elbow, guiding her from the room as he speaks. His final words are tossed carelessly over a shoulder, and though he does not state what will happen if Barry and Harrison are still here when they return, the threat is quite clear.

 _Ugh_. Less than five minutes spend dealing with Cisco’s parents gives Harrison a very clear picture of how Cisco was able to deal with Hartley’s resentment for months at a time.

From beside Cisco’s bed, Dante speaks. He says plainly, “You should leave.”

Beside him, Barry stiffens. His hands are clenched by his side, and from this angle, Harrison can see they are almost white. In the face of a furious and grieving mother, Barry remained silent, but apparently this young man is treading on dangerously thin ground.

Dante continues, “You’re not welcome here.”

“I’m sorry,” Barry says, not sounding sorry at all. “You are?”

“Dante Ramon.” A pause. “Cisco’s brother.”

“Cisco’s never mentioned you,” Barry replies, in the bored, factual voice he might use to describe the weather.

Oh. _Oh_. The man known as Harrison Wells blinks, surprised, even as Dante goes red at the insult. This underhanded viciousness is new. He must admit a certain – curiosity – as he leans back in his wheelchair, distancing himself from the situation, allowing Barry to maintain the lead.

Barry continues, still in that calm, bored tone, “So, just to be clear, you’re upset at Dr. Wells because someone attacked S.T.A.R. Labs, and Cisco was hurt in the process.” A pause, then, “You do know this wasn’t an accident, right? Like, you can actually put the blame on the people who blew up the building.”

Here, Dante splutters. “Obviously. But it’s Wells’ fault, too. He – he announced it on TV, that he was warned things might go wrong, and he didn’t listen.” The young man fidgets uncomfortably, glancing down at his brother’s face. The nasty bruising he sees there must bolster his resolve because he continues, “Someone came after him for that, as if it wasn’t bad enough when he blew up half the city!” 

Barry frowns, tilts his head to the side. His words are sharp. Sharper than the man known as Harrison Wells has ever heard them before. “So you mean to tell me that you’ve never made a mistake? Must be nice.”

“That’s not – you’re twisting it all around. People _died_ because of his mistake.”

“They did,” Barry admits easily. He doesn’t falter, nor does he look away. “And it was terrible and tragic, all that loss. But you know something? This city already hated Dr. Wells before he held that press conference. There was nothing for him to gain in admitting his own wrongdoing, and he definitely didn’t have to come forward and explain that it was even worse than people knew.”

Barry stands tall, proud. His chin is tilted up slightly, his expression defiant. One of his hands comes to rest on Harrison’s shoulder, and he squeezes gently in reassurance. “But he did it anyway. Because you can’t build something based on half-truths and lies. Because it was the right thing to do.”

There is something like pride in Barry’s voice, and the man known as Harrison Wells feels conflicted.

“Could you do that?” the young man continues, eyes intense, locked onto Cisco’s brother like twin lasers. Dante opens his mouth to say something, but helplessly clicks it shut as Barry continues, “Could you own up to your mistakes like that? Could you take the condemnation? The threats of violence? The constant fear of being hurt by people who think you deserve everything you get?”

Here, Barry pauses, clearly waiting for the other man’s response. He is met with silence, and Dante looks away, unable to meet his eyes.

Satisfied, Barry says, “That’s what I though.” Then, quietly, “So maybe you can do me a favor and back off. Because Dr. Wells isn’t the only person to have ever made a mistake. And because when Cisco wakes up–”

_When. Not if._

“–he’s going to come back and continue his work at S.T.A.R. Labs like nothing happened. He’s going to be amazing and brilliant and he’s going to save the _world_ with his inventions, because that’s the kind of guy he is. But you know what he’s not going to do?”

“What?” Dante’s voice is soft, already defeated.

There is no hesitation in Barry’s voice. Only certainty. “He’s _not_ going to blame Dr. Wells. He’s going to put the blame on the people who blew up S.T.A.R. Labs, the ones who made that choice, the ones who _deserve_ it.”

“Yeah, well.” Dante frowns at his hands where they rest atop the white hospital sheets. “Of the two of us, he's always been the smart one.” A pause, then, “You should leave. My parents will be back soon, and my mother – she’s hurting.”

Barry takes a moment, observing the slump of Dante’s shoulders, the nervous wringing of his hands. He nods, accepting the statement for the olive branch it is. He strides forward, ignoring Dante’s startled look, and presses a chaste kiss to Cisco’s forehead.

As Barry turns to leave, Dante asks hesitantly, “What – what is Cisco to you, exactly?” 

Barry pauses, though he doesn’t turn around, and the man known as Harrison Wells is treated to one of the young man’s slow, sweet smiles. His words, though, are for Cisco’s brother: “Isn’t it obvious? He’s family.” Then, “C’mon, Dr. Wells. It’s already the beginning of December, Christmas is right around the corner.”

Harrison blinks, confused. He turns, directing his wheelchair through the doorway as he asks, “I’ll confess that I have no idea what you mean.”

Barry rolls his eyes, “ _I mean_ , it’s getting colder out there, and you don’t have a jacket. I want to see if one of the nurses will let me borrow a blanket for you.”

***

After the unexpectedly intense visit to Cisco’s hospital room, the rest of their plans proceed smoothly. Barry is able to charm a blanket from one of the nurses at the floor’s central station, and the paperwork for Harrison’s discharge is finally processed. The Paratrans-Plus driver picks them up, having brought a low-tech substitute wheelchair to temporarily replace the one that’s in evidence, and the ride to Harrison’s house is thankfully uninterrupted.

Caitlin meets them there. Her car is already parked in the long, rounded driveway when they arrive, and the relief on her face is palpable when she sees them. She laughs, a single, bright “Ha!” and runs to greet them, knees hitting the ground as she throws her arms around Harrison’s shoulder. She presses a dry, entirely unexpected kiss to his cheek.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” she says, smiling, fierce. Then she bites her lower lip, chews it between her teeth as she glances up at Barry. “Cisco – is he–?”

“No change,” Barry replies quietly. Then, quickly, “Not even a day at this point, Cait. He’ll wake up soon. I know it.”

“Of course,” Caitlin replies. “You’re right. Of course.” She turns her attention back to Harrison, then offers another bright smile in conjunction with a second hug. “Welcome back, Dr. Wells.”

“Ah – thank you, Caitlin,” the man known as Harrison Wells replies as cordially as he can manage, and he pats her on the back awkwardly. _Is this the normal response to near-death?_ he wonders. As he is usually the one doing the killing, this is a new perspective for him.

As they pile into Caitlin’s car, Harrison is forced to accept Barry’s assistance to move him from the wheelchair to the front seat. It should be uncomfortable, this perceived dependence, but it is offset by the heat of Barry’s body, the endearing blush that creeps down Barry’s neck, the faint, possessive tightening of Barry’s fingers right before he releases his hold and steps away. The single, distinct advantage this wheelchair has on his far superior technology is that it can be folded in half, easily stored in the trunk of the car.

The duration of the drive is punctuated by Barry and Caitlin’s version of shoptalk, as they describe the warehouse, bouncing ideas back and forth as they offer suggested improvements to the building’s design, developing it into a secondary base of operation. The man known as Harrison Wells listens quietly, observes, offers the occasional comment. 

Neither Barry nor Caitlin seems to be willing to press him to heavily at this point, not for details of his time away for them, not even for his attention. It is a bit of a relief, allowing only a small portion of his mind to track the conversation, giving the rest free license to wander. 

For example, Harrison will readily admit that access to a second, hidden building makes sense. Having a safehouse set up in case of emergency is a smart play, one he has previously considered – and subsequently discarded.

Honestly, the main reason he hadn’t bothered with creating one before is simply because he isn’t planning on sticking around in this era forever. His endgame involves Barry Allen’s demise before returning to his rightful place in time, and it seemed a waste of effort to create something that will ultimately only be used for a scant handful of months.

But – this is good. This is Barry, exercising his freedom to make decisions without a mentor peering over his shoulder, directing his every move. This is Barry, showing that he is capable of accepting and shouldering more responsibility in his vigilante quest to help people.

The man known as Harrison Wells hasn’t considered his original plans in anything but a broad sense in quite some time, and it is possible that his original plans need some – oh, what’s the proper word–

 _Revision_.

Yes. Revision. He’s not going to change his ultimate goal of returning home, not after he’s spent fifteen years engineering this reality. But he can admit, perhaps, that the manner in which he will achieve this goal could use a little tweaking. Creating the Flash to go home was necessary, rekindling and strengthening the young man’s connection to the speedforce was vital. But the notion of directly slaughtering Barry – this Barry – before he takes his final trip home – well.

The man known as Harrison Wells is quite keen on economy of thought. To be brilliant, to be beautiful, a plan must be elegant. In his own mind, elegance has always equated to simplicity. Simplicity is the lack of anything unnecessary.

He doesn’t need to kill Barry to go home.

It’s as simple as eliminating that which isn’t needed. He’ll work through the specifics at some point in the future, but he is a master of manipulation, and a plan that could be considered his _magnum opus_ must be perfect. Beautiful and brilliant and elegant in its simplicity.

He doesn’t need to kill Barry to go home.

There is a knot in his chest that loosens at the thought. It’s – he must have hit himself there this morning, perhaps bruised the muscle. Now that he’s out of the hospital, he should take his blue pill and accelerate his healing process; it’s been so long since he sported injuries that he’s having trouble remembering how to deal with them.

***

When the impossible man regains consciousness, he is tied to a chair in the middle of a dank, bleak warehouse. Len knows when he sees the tools of torture laid out neatly on a nearby table because there is a tiny, muted hitch of breath in the man’s chest.

“What’s – I don’t–” the man groans, bewildered, terrified.

“You know,” Len says thoughtfully, adjusting his goggles to completely cover his eyes, “the last guy I stuck in a chair and threatened with torture was a complete pain in my ass.” He draws his fingertips lightly across each of his tools before he settles on one. 

As he lifts the hammer from the table, he adds, “I really hope this time goes a bit smoother.”

The impossible man whimpers.

***


	42. [3/5] Episode 9: Sister Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First, no Len in this chapter. Sorry! The next chapter is going to be pretty much nothing but Len, which will hopefully make up for my Len-deficit here. Also, this chapter is not beta'd (yet), and since there's so much crap going on, if you need a visual aid timeline for this 18-hour clusterfuck, you can find it here: [link](http://townwithoutheart.tumblr.com/post/144669059012/so-since-im-working-on-a-new-chapter-i-kind-of)!
> 
> Also, I am beat and probably going to bed. There are amazing comments that I want to respond to, but I don't think I'm going to get to them until tomorrow. Sorry! But I promise you that I will get to them, and that they inspire me every time I read them, especially when real life isn't going so great.

***

“–and that’s the full tour,” Barry concludes, unabashed, satisfied, having guided Harrison through all aspects of the building. And Harrison can admit without reservation that in the brief span of time Barry and Caitlin had to come up with a viable solution, they performed their task quite admirably. Turning to Oliver Queen for assistance was an excellent – though unexpected – move.

There, a handful of small rooms with temporary cots, to be converted into living quarters in event of an emergency. The bathroom is barely a closet, containing a chipped toilet and a sink, but Barry confesses plans to replace both, and to knock down one of the walls, making space for a shower. . There is an area that will be easily adapted into a kitchen, and the entrance to the basement is well hidden. While the rooms below aren’t suitable for housing metahumans in the long term, they will serve as acceptable jail cells for Black and Nimbus in the interim, at least until S.T.A.R. Labs is up and running once more.

They have come full circle, back at the center of the warehouse which might well be described as the cortex, if comparisons are being made. Felicity and Caitlin sit side by side in front of one of the smaller computer monitors, and their work is projected overhead, divvied up onto several larger screens.

It appears the women are going over a series of old police reports? Curious.

“Dr. Wells!” Caitlin looks up with a warm smile and greets him, ever formal. “What do you think of the place?”

Felicity follows that with a rousing, “I am _so_ glad you’re not dead!”

Both Barry and Caitlin turn to stare at her, twin expressions of perplexed horror on their faces, and Felicity slaps a hand over her mouth. She says something, indistinguishable, muffled. After a moment, she lowers her hand from her face, her cheeks flaming red, then says, “I am _so_ sorry. I fail at filtering my words on the best of days, and when I’ve pulled an all-nighter, it’s amplified by a factor of twenty, possibly risen to the third power.”

The man known as Harrison Wells smiles, a small gesture. It’s been a busy eighteen hours, and he feels slightly off-balanced. The smile, though, is strangely natural to him. Perhaps it is because Felicity Smoak reminds him of Barry. “Your honesty is quite refreshing. And please, I believe I’ve told you before, you’re quite welcome to call me Harrison.”

Inexplicably, Felicity glances at Barry. “Thank you?” she says, although the last word ends on a questioning note. “I’ll keep it in mind, but I’m pretty sure I’ll fail. Which is totally cool, because – um. Reasons. So, did you did you want the skinny on the bad, the worse, or the ugly?”

Barry shifts minutely, moving his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet. He doesn’t even seem to be aware of it, but it speaks clearly of the young man’s mindset. He is on edge, ready to run, ready to fight.

There is something – hard – in his voice. Something unforgiving, unyielding, and he says, “All of it. Just – give me all of it.”

“Oo-kay. Um.” Felicity blinks, takes a breath, then replies, “So, let’s start with the bad. You know how I told you that your grade-A military asshat uses the services of a _really_ good hacker?”

Barry nods, a short, jerky dip of his head.

“Well, I’ve been trying to figure out who they are, y’know? If I could track them down, nail down something about who they are, where they studied – well, I figured I’d be a step closer to locating your missing metas.”

Beside Felicity, Caitlin nods in understanding. “It makes sense,” she says softly. “When a human being is the variable in an equation, the more data available on them, the better the chance of understanding how they work.”

“Right!” Felicity exclaims. “But this hacker, whoever they are – well, they’re good. Like, pretty much on par with me, and I’m not bragging when I tell you, I’m one of the best.” She frowns, glancing between Caitlin and Harrison, before finally settling on Barry. “I’m not – well, I’m not going to give up, okay? I’m going to keep trying, Barry. But I can’t make you any promises, because right now, all I can do it try to hunt the ghost in the machine.”

The young woman leans back in her chair, a tiny sigh puffing her bangs up and away from her face. “Seriously though, I don’t know where General Jerkface found them, because there’s only a handful of hacker’s in this country who can give me a run for my money. And before today? I’d have sworn I’d met _all_ of them.”

“In this country,” Barry muses, head cocked thoughtfully to the side. “You think maybe he outsourced?”

The man known as Harrison Wells considers this notion briefly before shaking his head in the negative. “Doubtful,” he replies, having followed enough of this conversation to offer his opinion. “Wade Eiling is part of the military – that is to say, I believe they like their assets homegrown. I doubt he would employ anyone who isn’t an American citizen, even if he could.”

“When Cisco wakes up–” and here, Harrison must appreciate Felicity’s optimism, because both Barry and Caitlin seem to relax a little, hearing someone else’s certainty that Cisco _will_ wake up, “–I’ll go over some of these programs that I’m setting up with him. I mean, I’ve shown Caitlin–”

“–but my specialty has always been biology. I can use a computer, but I don’t understand it fully. Not like Felicity,” Caitlin admits ruefully. “In college, maybe, but–” Her sentence cuts off abruptly, and she looks quite uncomfortable.

“Are you okay?” Barry asks, concerned.

“Fine,” Caitlin replies quickly. Too quickly. “I just. College wasn’t the best time for me. I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s okay?”

“Of course,” Harrison replies, though his curiosity is peaked.

In an obvious – and thoughtfully tactful – change of subject, Barry says, “When Cisco wakes up, he’ll have something new to name, at least.” At Harrison’s confused look, the young man elaborates, “The warehouse, I mean. I’ve been thinking of it as S.T.A.R. Labs, 2.0, but I’m pretty sure that’ll offend Cisco’s delicate naming sensibilities.”

Felicity makes a tiny, displeased sound. She grumbles, “It’s like you have Jedi-mind tricks on your side. I _so_ wanted to name this warehouse, but Caitlin told me Cisco does the naming and she refused to budge on the subject. It’s just not fair!”

“Flashcave is a horrible name,” Caitlin replies, deadpan.

“Flashcave is a _great_ name,” Felicity shoots back. “What’s wrong with it?”

Caitlin rolls her eyes. “It’s barely a proper descriptive. To start, aside from the somewhat poor lighting – which is scheduled to be replaced – there is nothing even remotely cave-like here.”

“It’s dark, it’s dingy, and the floors are dirty–”

“–we have indoor plumbing!” Caitlin defends, lips pursed.

“Well, what about the creepy cave entrance that leads to the dungeon?” Felicity points out, referring to the concealed, wooden hatch currently hidden by a well-placed throw-rug.

“You mean the one that’s supposed to be a secret?”

“Ladies!” Harrison interjects, ruefully shaking his head. “Perhaps when Cisco awakes, we can put it to a vote?”

Felicity pouts. “While you currently have the home-team advantage, I’d like to point out there’s no telling what will happen when the reinforcements arrive.”

“Reinforcements?” Harrison doesn’t find that particular turn of phase even remotely reassuring.

“Oliver Queen is on his way from Sterling City,” Barry explains. “Along with his bodyguard, and possibly a vigilante named the Arrow?”

“Ah.”

“Which is actually going to be a blessing, because that brings me to the next piece of news,” Felicity admits. “Meet worse.”

The young woman taps out a few keys on the board in front of her, bringing up a picture of a man with dark hair and a round face, which match his dark, round glasses. He appears to be sneaking away from the vault of a bank, and all around him there is chaos. Frozen on the screen, men and woman divided, faces twisted in rage. There is so much _action_ on the screen that filtering it all takes a considerable amount of time. Everyone appears to be throwing something, be it a punch or anything that isn’t nailed to the floor. There are the remnants of a broken chair in one man’s hands, and it looks as though one of the tellers is stabbing her coworker’s hand with a pen.

The man known as Harrison Wells examines the scene with a critical eye. “Is that a riot?” he asks, curious.

“Of a sort,” Caitlin replies, and her expression is slightly pinched.

“You were right, Barry,” Felicity sighs, looking up at the still-frame. 

Barry shakes his head, then addresses Harrison, answering the unspoken question. He explains, “There’s a man in ICU, in the room next to Cisco’s. Some woman shot him yesterday, and he made it through the surgery, but – they don’t know if he’s going to make it. Thing is, there wasn’t any reason for it. The victim and the perpetrator, they don’t know each other. The only thing they have in common is that they share the same bank.” He gestures up at the chaos on the screen. “ _That_ bank. I got the feeling a meta was involved, so I asked Felicity to look into it.”

Felicity and Caitlin exchange a dark, heavy glance. Caitlin bites her lip and shakes her head, a subtle movement that Barry doesn’t notice. In response, Felicity offers brightly, “Well, we got a ping from the facial recognition software–”

Harrison blinks. “Since when do we have facial recognition software?”

“Happy Chanukah,” the young woman grins in reply, momentarily exuberant. The happy expression fades as she continues, “Meet Roy Bivolo. He’s been sticking his sticky little fingers into tills and vaults for the last couple of months. Here’s what Caitlin and I have been able to piece together.”

She taps a few more keys, bringing up a comprehensive map of the area with several blinking, red markers, scattered in an indiscernible pattern across the city. “A total of three banks and eleven convenience stores have been hit in the last six months. They all share the same pattern – a spontaneous outbreak where everyone in the vicinity turns into rage-o-holics who proceed to beat the crap out of each other.”

“At first, because there were only a handful of people involved in the convenience store incidents, the police believed that the riots were planned,” Caitlin adds.

“But I’ve done a little research for you, pulled up every piece of video surveillance in those areas that I could find, and Mr. Bivolo is the only factor these places _actually_ have in common. In each event, he stuffs what he can fit into his bag and flees the scene of the crime before the police show up.” Felicity shakes her head. “To be honest, if he’d have stuck to the petty thieving, we probably wouldn’t have caught on for at least a couple more months.”

She brings the original image of Bivolo and his riot back on the screen. “Anyway, according to the police report, his most successful robbery took place just yesterday, at the bank on Cunningham and Sampere. Detectives West and Thawne were some of the first responders, and according to them, it looked as though everyone in the bank was trying to kill one another. That’s nearly thirty people. It was a heck of a diversion, because half a million dollars was stolen from the vault–”

“Diversion. So you think still think it might have been planned?” Barry interrupts. There’s a strange note in his voice. Almost hopeful?

“Doubtful,” Caitlin replies. “I would estimate that there’s a ninety-five percent chance that Mr. Bivolo is a metahuman.”

Barry’s shoulders seem to slump, and he sighs wearily. “Damnnit.”

“At first I thought it might be some kind of neurotoxin,” Felicity admits. “None of the forensic guys on the scene suspected anything along those lines, so they didn’t take any surface swabs. I couldn’t really confirm that theory, but!”

“There was a – um – second report. About how someone saw a flash of red from Mr. Bivolo’s eyes, before they acted in a manner completely outside of their usual range. On Detective West’s suggestion, the hospital took a CAT scan of the man affected, and, well – here, see for yourself–”

A few more keystrokes and the overhead image changes again. Felicity makes a “have at it” movement with her hand, apparently ceding to Harrison and Caitlin’s combined, superior knowledge of the human body. Harrison studies the patterns of the brain, fascinated. He comments, “The emotion centers of the brain are still showing signs of being overwhelmed. How long after the initial confrontation was this scan taken?”

Caitlin glances at the charts. “About an hour.” She uses her mouse to circle a particular area on the image, likely for Barry and Felicity’s sake. “Here. This area controls executive function. The damage is most clearly visible there.”

Frowning at the image, Barry asks, “So – what does that mean, exactly? That’s the – what? – part of the brain that stops people from partaking in randomly destructive acts of fury?”

The man known as Harrison Wells snorts. He replies delicately, “You’re – not wrong.”

Caitlin nods, “Due to the second report, the officer who reported the flash of red? It made me suspect the meta is inducing rage via the ocular nerve.”

“Fascinating.” Harrison tilts his head, examining Bivolo’s rather forgettable face. “You suspect he’s using color psychology? Projecting changes in the color spectrum which temporarily affect the emotions of anyone who sees them?”

Before Caitlin can reply, Barry repeats, “Officer?” There is a moment of tense silence, and he asks quietly, “What aren’t you telling me?”

“There was a tracer in the cash that was taken,” Caitlin says quietly. “When the CCPD went to apprehend Bivolo – ah–”

At the same time, Felicity says, “I’m sorry, Barry. You were dealing with everything from last night and–”

Barry cuts them both off. His voice is hoarse, a whisper. “What happened?”

“Last night, most officers were busy with the fallout from the attack on S.T.A.R. Labs,” Caitlin reveals gently. “Only two answered the dispatch to apprehend Bivolo – Officers Carson and Pierce. One is down, in critical care. The other officer is under arrest... for doing the shooting.”

Barry balls his hands into fists, clenched tightly at his sides. He radiates fury as he spits, “Damnnit.” And he spins on his heel, moving at super speed. In an instant he is by the warehouse wall, a thick, metal patch that must have been used for a quick repair.

The noise is like an angry gunshot, and Barry slams his bare fists into metal, right then left in rapid succession. He must have gotten pointers on proper punching technique from someone because his hips swivel with each hit, building, progressive, furious.

The man known as Harrison Wells raises his voice, calling out, “Barry!”

Lost to his rage, there is no response.

Caitlin raises her hands to her face, having expected some sort of negativity. The look on her face clearly says that she wasn’t prepared for this level of violence. She makes a tiny, distressed noise. It catches in the back of her throat, and her mouth works soundlessly.

Harrison rolls forward, intent on stopping the young man before he can further damage his hands. He raises his voice, bellowing, “BARRY!”

Barry stops as suddenly as he began. His hands fall limply to his sides, a puppet with cut strings. He looks up, gaze ghosting over Harrison’s face, over Caitlin’s pale horror. He stares at Felicity and he says, “What else? I know that look, Felicity. There’s more, isn’t there?”

“If I say yes, are you going to punch something else?” Felicity asks, biting her lower lip. “Because I’m not okay with that. I’m very much against punching things. I want that noted.”

“I – I’m sorry,” Barry replies. He takes a step away from the wall, shaking his head. “There’s a lot going on, and I think I might be going a little insane, because I seriously have no idea how to deal with it all, but. You’re right, punching things never fixed anything.”

“Unless it’s a bad guy,” Felicity contributes. “Ol – I mean, the Arrow, he’s more of a shooter? Bows, I mean, not guns. Less of a puncher, that’s all I’m saying.”

“You’re stalling,” Caitlin mock whispers, attempting levity, though her hands a shaking.

“I know,” Felicity replies out of the corner of her mouth.

“Just. Just lay it on me,” Barry says, visibly bracing himself.

“The man in the ICU. The one who got shot at the bank.” Felicity’s head falls forward, her chin coming to rest on her chest as she stares at her hands, twisting in her lap. “He didn’t make it, Barry. I’m sorry.”

And then, Barry is gone. He uses his speed to disappear from the warehouse without a word.

Felicity and Caitlin sit in uncomfortable silence, and the man known as Harrison Wells stares at the metal wall, at the dents in the shape of fists and the bloody smears. The bad, the worse, and the ugly. A most appropriate disclaimer.

Finally, he asks, “Is there any good news?”

Caitlin glances at the brain scan, then at a second computer screen. Her eyes dart through a series of numbers, picking out pertinent data, and she hazards, “I think it’s possible – that is to say – maybe we can nullify the effects? Use light and color to reverse it?”

Harrison nods. “I’ll leave it in your capable hands, Dr. Snow, Felicity” he says. “And I think, perhaps, I’ll take a look at the building’s perimeter.”

As he puts his hands on the wheels, angling his wheelchair towards the front entrance of the warehouse, Felicity calls out, “If you or Barry need us – I mean, not that you need _us_ when you have each other–” she stops, bright red, then stutters out, “–we’re here. For you. The both of you. Is all I’m saying.”

Despite himself, a small smile tugs the corners of his mouth. She really does remind him of Barry.

“Thank you,” the man known as Harrison Wells replies lightly. “I will be certain to keep that in mind.”

And then he wheels himself through the entrance, intent on finding his wayward – ah. Intent on finding Barry. It isn’t a difficult task; the young man didn’t go far, nor is he making an effort to hide himself. He is curled into himself, sitting on the ground with his back to the trunk of an evergreen. 

Harrison actually finds himself strangely thankful that Barry didn’t travel an insurmountable distance, as navigating the somewhat uneven terrain in a wheelchair is not a pleasant experience. He manages to pull up alongside where the young man sits without pitching himself face-first into the ground. Once there, he waits.

“It’s my fault,” Barry says. His voice is muffled, face buried in the curve of his arms, wrapped around his knees. “I didn’t. I wasn’t the Flash yesterday, and someone died – because of _me_.”

Well-used to the meaningless platitudes, Harrison begins, “Yesterday was trying for everyone. You can’t possibly blame yourself – not about something over which you had no control.”

“I can. I can.” Barry’s shoulders shake. “Oh God, I do.” Barry’s head jerks up and Harrison finds himself caught by a pair of red-rimmed eyes. He finds himself wondering at the last time Barry slept. Between yesterday’s failed mission to rescue Bette, dealing with the fallout at S.T.A.R. Labs, relocating the pipeline prisoners, and dedicating his entire night and the CCPD’s resources to find Harrison himself, well – it’s been – quite a while.

“Yesterday,” Barry whispers, broken. “When Cisco found that transmission about Bette – I _heard_ about the robbery on the police scanner right before I left, and I. Eiling has had Bette for _weeks_ , experimenting on her, _torturing_ her, and I – I thought that the police could handle it. I thought it was more important, to get Bette out of there.”

Barry burrows back into the security of his arms. “Fuck. I didn’t know. I didn’t know about the metahuman. And it was all a lie anyway and now a man is dead, and some innocent woman is going to go to jail for _killing_ him.”

And then Barry is crying into his arms, quiet, hiccuping sobs that shake his whole body. His guilt is a heavy, tangible weight, wrapped around his shoulders, and his bloody knuckles twitch visibly as his fingers clench around the bunched cloth of his sleeves.

“I–” Harrison starts. Stops. Observes.

There is no solution here. No real way to fix this thing which is so clearly jagged and broken, tangled and twisted. The path of the hero, lined with meaningless platitudes.

“It’s not your fault,” he says suddenly. He reaches over, stroking Barry’s dark, unruly hair like a child. It is a gentle movement, offering comfort that feels foreign and wrong and _not enough_.

“I–” Harrison starts again. Stops again.

The soft, broken noises that catch in Barry’s throat leave him feeling – lost. Confused. Angry.

Finally, softly, like the thread of his fingers in Barry’s hair, he murmurs, “It’s not your fault.”

The man known as Harrison Wells finds his teeth are clenched. His chest _burns_ and he wishes for something to kill.

***


	43. [4/5] Episode 9: Brother Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter of Len, as promised. You know the drill, I am posting this late at night, and of course I'm going to completely fail at replying to the amazing comments from the last chapter until sometime tomorrow, likely after work. Anyway, thank you for your support, as always, and on with the show!

***

It’s a little bit cruel, Len muses, and he watches the impossible man’s eyes follow the movement of the hammer as he swings it in front of him. It’s a cautious movement, testing the weight in his hand, listening to the muted whistle as it cuts through the air unhindered.

Definitely cruel. But it’s also kind of nice, and he swings the hammer a second time, a little quicker, a little more savagely. The impossible man whimpers, a tiny, terrified noise, and his eyes are wide and dark with fear.

This, right here? This is how people are _supposed_ to respond to threats of torture. This is a textbook look at how intimidation tactics work, and if there’s a hint of satisfaction twisting Len’s lips, it’s perfectly acceptable and it serves him well in this scenario. It’s a relief, too, because the problem isn’t with Len’s techniques, but rather with his previous captive. Harrison Wells was an anomaly so far outside the standard, he completely threw the bell curve.

“Okay,” Len says, and he smiles. It’s meant to be reassuring, but the man whimpers again, and Len finds satisfaction in that, too. “Let’s start with an easy one – your name. A no-brainer, right? And if you lie to me, that’s what people are going to call you from now on. A no-brainer.” He swings the hammer a third time, striking at the air.

“R-roy,” the impossible man stutters, fear tangling his words into a knotted mess. “Roy B-b-bivolo. Oh God, p-please don’t hurt me, please don’t–”

“Roy,” Len responds, pleased. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Roy. You can call me – hm. You can call me Cold. And if you’re very, very lucky, I won’t show you why I was given that name.”

“–p-please don’t hurt me, oh God, oh God, I d-didn’t do anything _w-wrong_ –”

“Roy? Roy!” Len barks the name out with authority, and Roy’s teeth click in his mouth sharply. Roy breathes in through his nose, big, noisy gusts of air that inflate his chest like a well-stretched balloon. Each out-breath is short, panicked. On one hand, it’s rather flattering that a hammer and a handful of words have resulted in hyperventilation. On the other hand, if the impossible man passes out, Len’s going to have to wait for a couple of hours to continue this interrogation.

Len places the hammer back on the table with the rest of his tools, a courtesy, before he slaps Roy across the face with an open hand. The blow snaps the impossible man out of whatever dark fantasy he is enacting in his mind, and Roy gapes up at Len with an open mouth.

“Breathe, Roy,” Len smirks. “I realize the situation is – less than ideal for you. But right now? Right now is easy. All you have to do is answer some questions.” Some of the color returns to Roy’s pale face, and Len adds, “If you answer honestly, I won’t break your face. Fair?”

Roy’s head jerks up, then down. A nod.

“Good.” Len smiles. He takes a step back towards the table, lets his fingers trail over the tools there, a gentle reminder. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a long time. Well, not you specifically, but someone _like_ you. Someone who can do–” Len pauses, takes a breath. “–someone who can do the _impossible_.”

Tied to the chair as he is, Roy can’t quite contain the slight, full-body flinch. The muscles of his arms and legs strain against the unforgiving zip-ties that shackle him to the chair. 

Roy licks his lips, and his adams apple bobs as he swallows nervously. “Imp-p-posible?” he stutters.

Len grins. “Impossible,” he confirms. He picks up a stack of papers from his table, fanning them out so Roy can see them. There are police reports, neatly typed. There are photographs printed from convenience store surveillance cameras. Reports and images of riots, of violence. Men and women fighting, pulling hair, throwing whatever they can get their hands on, kicking, punching, screaming.

Very much aware of Roy’s eyes on him, Len plucks one photo in particular out of the pile. He dangles it enticingly between his thumb and forefinger. It is a photo of a man, stuffing money from a cash register into an oversized satchel. The photo is of poor quality, blurry. The man wears a baseball cap that shadows his face, and a pair of round glasses that block his eyes. His clothing is brown, nondescript. Despite all of this, Len knows that this is an image of Roy.

And judging by the muted look of horror that twists Roy’s face right now, Roy knows it too.

Len smiles. He continues to hold the surveillance photo in front of Roy’s wide, frightened eyes, moving it back and forth, hypnotic. His voice is quiet, but full of conviction as he says, “You see, Roy, not only do I think you can do something _impossible_ , but I’m pretty sure you’ve been using that ability to moonlight as a criminal. But what I don’t think you realized was how much attention you’ve been attracting.”

Roy makes a noise. A soft, indistinct word. A curse, maybe, or a prayer.

Len continues, “You saw the police reports, yes? The cops of Central City aren’t idiots. Even if the reports can’t pinpoint _how_ you’re doing it, they do seem to all agree that you’re a common factor in these crimes. You might be able to make people angry – oh, and believe me, Roy, I am _very_ curious to find out how that works – but you’re not infallible.”

Len places the photo down onto the table carefully, setting it atop the rest of the paperwork. 

“How did it happen, Roy?” Len asks.

The other man doesn’t bother playing coy. He lets out a shaky breath, then replies “Last year. S.T.A.R. Labs. The exp-p-plosion. It – did something – to me.”

Len rounds on the man, intent. The sudden movement makes Roy flinch. “So you’re saying – this wasn’t intentional?” Len’s eyes narrow, his mind racing as he extrapolates the possibilities of this new data. “No one experimented on you. No one taught you or trained you or offered you a choice. You were just an ordinary man who – what – got caught in the blast?”

Roy shakes his head, a tiny movement, as if he is afraid that anything greater will bring Len’s anger down on him. “No, I d-didn’t–” he hastens to explain. “I wasn’t _there_. I was – I was at home when it happened. I was p-painting.”

“Interesting.” So much emotion contained in such a small word. What if Lisa is correct? What if Harrison Wells _intentionally_ set off a chain of events that caused the particle accelerator to explode? And that explosion affected the people of this city – not all of them, Len would have picked up on everyone in this city having impossible abilities, thank you very much. But – some of them. Roy Bivolo. The burning man. The metal douchebag. All of them appearing in Central City in the wake of the explosion. Christ, why didn’t he see it before?

 _Because of the Flash, and because of the Reverse-Flash,_ a quiet, analytical corner of Len’s mind points out.

And that’s – that’s true. The only two cases of someone impossible that Len knows of that date back before the explosion are the Rerverse-Flash, who killed Nora Allen, and the Flash, who tried to save her. Both of whom are somehow connected to Harrison Wells. Who owns S.T.A.R. Labs, which is ground zero for the rest of these impossible humans.

And somehow, someway, Barry is connected to all of this insanity. The Reverse-Flash killed Barry’s mother – but only because he couldn’t kill Barry. Harrison Wells transferred Barry to S.T.A.R. Labs after the accident that resulted in his coma – only it wasn’t really an accident, if Lisa’s theory is correct. And the Flash is also connected to S.T.A.R. Labs, but the Reverse-Flash said that the Flash was his enemy – someone who tried, and failed, to stand against him. 

What the fuck does all of this mean? There’s too much there to be a coincidence, but none of it makes any _sense_.

Len comes back to himself, realizing that he’s been silent for a few minutes when he hears Roy beginning to hyperventilate again.

“Breathe, Roy,” Len reminds the impossible man. “So, this all started when the accelerator exploded. And what exactly is ‘this,’ if you don’t mind me asking. You can – incite riots?”

Roy shivers. “I – yes? I mean, I can influence p-people. Make them feel things. Anger. Hate. Rage.” A pause, then, “I was – am – an artist. I was – there was a man who commissioned me to do a painting for his office. It was one of my best works.”

Len says nothing. Roy is talking faster now, more loosely. He seems to have forgotten their respective positions of captor and captive, and he’s not as blatantly terrified. The further he gets into the story, the more he seems to forget to stammer and stutter and trip over his words. It’s almost as if he has wanted to share this story with someone, but been unable.

It makes Len wonder, briefly, if Roy Bivolo has any friends.

“I spent _weeks_ on this painting. Weeks. I started it, stopped it. I reworked different sections of it at least a hundred times.” Roy shakes his head, his voice growing louder, stronger. “And then I scrapped the whole thing and started from scratch. It was – I put my _heart_ into that painting. And he fucking _spit_ on it.”

Roy looks up at Len, and even through the cool-blue of his goggles, he can see the impossible man’s eyes are – flashing? Shining? It’s fascinating and strange, and Len wonders if that’s how the man does his magic. Hypnotic eyes. So weird.

“I gave him my best and he – he – my work was shit on the bottom of his shoes, and I was so _angry_ ,” Roy says. “And I don’t know what happened, because everyone in the office went crazy. They started fighting each other, and it was – I didn’t know how it happened, but I knew that I did it. I was angry – and then, so were they.”

The impossible man falls silent for a moment, breathing heavily. 

Deciding that Roy isn’t going to continue without some help, Len prompts, “And suddenly, you – what – find yourself turning to a life of crime? How did that happen, exactly?”

There is a moment where Roy’s shoulders seem to hunch forward, as if he can fold in on himself and disappear. “I was – angry. It’s better for me to be angry.”

There’s a story there. Len edges forward, makes his expression as sympathetic and attentive as he can. Nudges cautiously, even gently, “Why’s that, Roy?” There is no answer, so Len hazards a guess. “If you’re angry, other people get angry. So if you’re – happy? Loving? – do other people feel that, too?”

Roy’s arms and legs are still zip-tied to the chair, but somehow the impossible man manages to shrink into himself even further. “I didn’t – that would be wrong,” he protests weakly.

Seeing the nice-guy tactic isn’t getting him very far, Len abruptly switches his methods. He tries a straightforward question, keeping a careful read on the other man’s facial expressions and fully-body responses. “Didn’t ask for your opinion on the morality of it, Mr. Rogers. I don’t think setting people up to kill each other is much better.” There, another flinch. It’s sort of strange, considering the man just admitted that he feels that being angry is the better alternative. Len tilts his head to the side, then adds, “But I’m curious. Could you do it?”

“I – anger is easier,” Roy mumbles, eyes downcast. “I didn’t mean to – I wouldn’t do that. It’s wrong.”

Len ponders that response for a moment. It seems that Roy Bivolo can use his eyes to make other people feel what he feels. Can project his anger, hate, and rage, but also other emotions, like love. Roy’s insistence, that anger is better – safer – than love is worrisome. It means that the impossible man _has_ projected that emotion onto someone else, and that he feels guilty for it.

Christ, this guy has the potential to be the equivalent of a human date rape drug, and isn’t that a terrifying thought?

Roy seems horrified by the notion, so that’s something. Still, if Len’s going to let this man anywhere near his family, he’s going to lay a few very clear, very concise ground rules. Before he can get into them, he changes the subject and asks, “Why were you at the docks tonight, Roy?”

Roy sags forward in the chair, shoulders loosing a touch of tension as he replies, “I wanted – I _needed_ – to get out of town. I went to the d-docks. I was going to – to stow away on a boat. Leave the city. Too much heat. Then I saw all that money and I got stupid, and it’s the first time–”

“–the first time someone was able to resist your rather – forceful – charms?” Len asks, tapping his finger to his steely, blue-tinted goggles. “Glasses, goggles – anything tinted that interferes with color. I take it you’ve never considered that before.”

Roy swallows. “It’s. I mean, I never thought about it, no.”

Len turns that over in his head momentarily, then continues, “You’re lucky it was my crew that picked you up, you know. Because I don’t think you’re quite aware of just _how_ much trouble you’re in right now. How many people are looking for you. See, I’ve been keeping an ear out for anything interesting on the police radio, and do you know what I heard?”

The impossible man shakes his head, side to side, sluggish, almost fearful.

Len’s response is a tight, close-lipped smile. “There was a shooting yesterday, Roy. Two shootings, actually. One was at a bank, during a riot. The other involved two police officers. Call me crazy, but I’m pretty sure both of those events are tied to you.”

Roy doesn’t offer a verbal response, but with the tightness that shoots up his spin and clutches at his shoulders, he doesn’t need to.

Len gestures to the stack of police reports. “If that wasn’t bad enough, there’s an APB out on you right now. Cops don’t take kindly to one of their own being shot, you know–”

“I didn’t–” Roy’s voice is loud, an abrupt counterpoint to Len’s mostly soothing, reasonable tones. “It’s safer, it’s better, being angry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Not... not permanently.”

“What you meant to do and what happened?” Len shakes his head, tssks. “Two very different beasts. If I let you go, I can almost guarantee this situation is going to end with you dead or incarcerated–”

Len cuts off. He blinks, stunned, as a piece of the puzzle he’s been considering clicks into place. What if the Flash isn’t _collecting_ those impossible humans, what if he’s _incarcerating_ them? If multiple people were affected by the explosion of the particle accelerator, it stands to reason that at least a few of them might take to using their newfound abilities to break the law. Regular cops wouldn’t be able to capture them, regular prisons wouldn’t be able to hold them.

The Flash, according to Ms. West’s blog, is a vigilante who helps people. Saving people from the scenes of accidents, stopping criminals. Prior to the Reverse-Flash’s unexpected reveal, Len hadn’t bought into the hype, assuming that the man was putting on an act. But if the Flash _is_ a vigilante, it makes sense that he might take that next step – stopping _impossible_ criminals. 

Following that train of thought, from all reports given, the Flash is the sort of person who respects human lives. And if the man can't turn over the impossible criminals that he captures to the police, for fear of the damage said criminals might do while in custody, then it stands to reason there might be some sort of impossible-prison, hidden away in the seemingly innocuous S.T.A.R. Labs.

Oh. Oh fuck. Len recalls Lisa mentioning the S.W.A.T. Team she ran into in basement of S.T.A.R. Labs when they broke in to find Barry. And with all of this, Len still can’t find the connection between Harrison Wells, the Flash, the Reverse-Flash, and S.T.A.R. Labs.

“You’re in a tight spot,” Len says, giving Roy an intense once-over. “But to be honest, so am I. I think that we can help each other.”

Roy blinks, lips parting in surprise.

“You’re dangerous,” Len continues. “But you’re not a very good thief. On the other hand, my crew is made up of a handful of _excellent_ thieves. And all of us are dangerous, too, in our own ways. I can keep you out of harm's way, and you can be part of a crew that pulls off big-game heists _without_ attracting the attention of the law.”

Roy licks his lips, still nervous. Negotiations when one party is tied to a chair are always a bit tricky, Len muses. “What – what do you get out of it?”

“I mentioned that I’m in a bit of a tight spot?” Len says. Roy nods. “You’re not the only one who was affected that night. There are impossible people like you all over this city. I’m hunting one of them, and he’s–” 

_Unbelievably fast. Incredibly clever. Unquestionably evil._

_Dangerous. Dangerous. Dangerous._

“–he's the devil. And I need help.”

“The devil?” Roy scoffs, just a little.

Len’s reply demolishes Roy’s disbelief. He bites out, “He is fast in ways you won’t believe without seeing. He is capable of killing someone without being seen, and his eyes glow red. I’m not a man prone to fits of religious inclination, but what else would you call him?”

“And – you want me to help you hunt him?” Roy shivers. “You’re as human as they get, I’m guessing, and _you_ scare the shit out of me. What can I do against someone like that?”

Len’s eyes go distant for just a moment, and he sees the barest bones of a plan, miles and miles down the road – but _reachable_.

“Well,” Len says, and he smiles crookedly. “I was thinking you could introduce the devil to fear.”

***


	44. [5/5] Episode 9: Aladdin, Prince of Thieves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, things are finally starting to move forward again! Sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out, but now pieces are in place and plot can start happening again. This entire episode was basically the fallout from episode 8... but starting episode 10, there’s a lot to look forward to! 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Your comments have fueled me to continue writing, even when writer’s block reared its ugly head. Also, for those people who are looking for some straight-up schmoopy ColdFlash to fill their sugar-fix, I posted a story called “The Shocker” a few days ago that you might enjoy.

***

After a brief internal debate, Len cuts the zip-ties that keep Roy tethered to the chair. Seeing as how his little array of torture-tools has been used solely to intimidate, it seems only fitting. And if Roy can’t quite swallow the little snivel of fear when Len first picks up the knife from the table, well – no one ever claimed fear wasn’t useful. 

“A few ground rules,” Len says. Still sitting, Roy rubs his wrists, then his ankles, in an attempt to get his blood circulating properly again. “From this point forward, my crew will be wearing something to protect their eyes – goggles, sunglasses, whatever – as a precaution against your influence. This includes you. From what little you’ve said, it seems you’re not fully in control of your abilities, and I’d rather not chance any unfortunate – incidents – if you get my drift.”

There are other reasons that Len doesn’t list – that Lisa will make a fuss about douchey sungoggles and pout, before cheering “Solidarity!” That from an outsider’s perspective, all four of them wearing sunglasses will appear less a preventative measure and more a uniform. That Roy wearing those goggles keeps his abilities hidden away, a cautious reserve, an ace up the sleeve, a “just in case.”

Then again, Len uses an ice-gun and Mick uses a handheld flame-thrower. It’s probably a good idea for the crew to get in that habit of wearing protective goggles even without Roy’s distinctive eyes.

“I–” Roy frowns, shakes his head. “That’s fine. That’s – it’s good. Knowing I’m not influencing anyone.”

Len isn’t above using theatrics to make his point. While Roy remains seated, Len uses his additional height to loom overtop of the impossible man. By crowding into the man’s space, Roy has no choice to look up, and even though he’s no longer tied to the chair, it will still leave him feeling disadvantaged. It’s a perfect illustration of their respective positions in the crew that Len is building: who will lead versus who will follow.

“You get the same contract as the rest of us: half of any take on the job is split evenly among the crew, regardless of whether or not they’re present for the heist. The other fifty percent is divided amongst whoever did the actual stealing. No one pulls jobs without my say, and as far as planning goes, I welcome input from my crew, but when push comes to shove, my word is law. Clear?”

“I – yes. Yes.”

“Good. You have questions, you come to me. You have problems, you come to me. My crew is–” _family_ “–close. Right now, you’re an outsider. Whether or not you remain that way – that’s on you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Len sees the way that Roy seems to straighten up a little at that statement. It seems that Len’s earlier observation, that Roy doesn’t have any friends, is probably accurate. But the man seems to _want_ them, and Len isn’t above manipulating that sort of desire, especially if it’s going to help keep his crew safe in the long run.

It’s a fine line to balance upon, but Len offers the impossible man a hand up. Roy looks at the appendage as though it is something perplexing, something foreign. Len wiggles his fingers, a brief encouragement, and Roy reaches out and grasps his hand.

Roy Bivolo isn’t a very big man, and Len has spent years helping Mick Rory up off the floor after bar fights. This is nothing.

But the way Roy looks at their conjoined hands – that way he seems to latch onto the idea of someone having his back – well, that might just be everything.

“C’mon,” Len says, and he jerks his thumb towards the door that Roy couldn’t see while he was in the chair. “Let me introduce you to the crew.”

***

“Okay,” Barry says, perplexed. “So, I’m going to go over all of this one more time. Because I was there for part of it, and it still seems kind of insane. You’re saying that Len – I mean, Snart – and an unknown associate blew up the entrance of S.T.A.R. Labs, and minutes after that happened the place was swarmed by Eiling’s team?”

The man known as Harrison Wells offers a single, slow nod of acknowledgement. It has been two days since the incident, and Barry has come to him – apologetic, sorry to push, but _needing_ to know the chain of events from Harrison’s unique perspective. Hardly unexpected, but it is a pleasant surprise that Barry has managed something like tact; the young man is thoughtful enough not to press the matter until both Felicity and Caitlin have vacated the warehouse, on their way to pick up lunch.

The nearest Big Belly Burger is at least a forty-minute drive from the warehouse. This conversation will not be interrupted.

The two of them are sitting in the warehouse’s “cortex.” The computer room is currently the only one with comfortable, rolling chairs. Barry is perched on one, seated directly across from Harrison’s wheelchair, forearms resting on the tops of his thighs. He is leaning forward, nearly vibrating, tension written in every line of his body.

Barry frowns, shakes his head. “Was this a joint attack?” Then, answering his own question. “No. No, that’s unlikely. Neither Snart nor Eiling’s team interacted with one another at all. In fact, from what you’ve told me, they were each interested in completely separate parts of the building. Len searched the upper levels, whereas Eiling’s team beelined for the pipeline prison.”

“Eiling wanted the metas,” Harrison agrees mildly. “And I imagine he must have had S.T.A.R. Labs under observation since our run-in with him last month.”

“Geeze.” Barry scrubs his hand along the back of his head furiously. “If that’s true – he would have seen me and Cisco bringing in Tony Woodward. We both know how far the General was willing to take things to capture Bette. And with visual confirmation, that we were keeping at least one metahuman locked up in S.T.A.R. Labs–”

“The catering,” Harrison says, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

Barry blinks, momentarily confused. Then his eyes go round and wide, and his words are like a prayer as he breathes out, “The catering.”

Because if Felicity is to be believed, Eiling has an excellent hacker on his payroll. It would have been painfully simple to look into the food delivered to S.T.A.R. Labs everyday – food that increased exponentially from their first pipeline prisoner to encompass the appetites of a minimum of four grown men, three times daily.

If Eiling had the labs under surveillance and saw evidence of at least one metahuman on the premise, he would have done his digging before going on a fully offensive attack. And the tragedy is, he wouldn’t have needed to look beyond the catering. Prior to two months ago, when the Flash first appeared in Central City, the man known as Harrison Wells ordered catering as a treat for his two remaining employees, Cisco and Caitlin, perhaps a handful of times. Since the prisoners have been accumulating in the basement, there have been three deliveries made daily.

“Okay,” Barry says, shaking his head. “Okay, so we know that Eiling probably had S.T.A.R. Labs under observation. We know that his hacker did some digging, and that the General pieced together that we had metahumans on the premises. The thought of even one metahuman would have tempted him, but because of the catering, he probably suspected we had at least three. Maybe more.”

Barry closes his eyes, face screwed up in concentrating. “So Eiling wanted me out of the way. He knew we were looking for Bette, and he left a trail of virtual breadcrumbs for Cisco to follow. And Len – I mean, Snart – probably isn’t connected to the General at all. If Eiling had us under observation, he might have known that Snart was planning to launch a direct attack on S.T.A.R. Labs. If he timed his own attack to coincide with that, that would make Len his fall guy.”

A moment of silence, of mental digestion. It is a well-reasoned theory, and it covers most, if not all of the oddities of the two-pronged attack on the labs.

Without warning, Barry’s eyes open, focused, intense. “What about the Reverse-Flash?”

The man known as Harrison Wells blinks. “Are you quite sure you are – prepared – for this, Barry?”

Barry nods. “I need to know what happened, Harrison. And – I’m sorry, really sorry, to make you relive it. But I don’t _understand_. Why did Len kidnap you? Why did the man in yellow, the man who _killed my mother_ , rescue you? He’s been a phantom, a monster under my bed for fifteen years. Why did he choose to come back _now_?”

Dutifully, Harrison recounts, “Snart and his associate, they found me in the cortex. Snart wanted to know–” A pause. “He wanted to know about you, Barry. About your location.”

The young man’s lips part in surprise. “That doesn’t – I mean – why?”

Harrison shrugs, a small quirk of his shoulders. “I’m not sure. When I refused to provide an answer–”

“You should have told him,” Barry interrupts, shaking his head, his tone – angry? “I don’t – it’s not okay, for you to protect me at the cost of your own safety. I’m not okay with that.”

“You were somewhere between here and Eiling’s decoy base. That covers hundreds of miles of ground, Barry,” Harrison points out reasonably, smiling slightly. “It isn’t as though I could tell him where you were, even had I wanted to.”

“I don’t care,” Barry says, flushed, impossibly stubborn. “Your safety – it’s important.”

Harrison’s smile widens marginally, and he shakes his head. Unwilling to argue the point – indeed, _unable_ to argue in the face of the young man’s obstinate resolution, he continues his tale. “When I didn’t provide a satisfactory answer, Snart hit me–” Here, he touches his head lightly, the lack of visible bruising concealed by the bandage wrapped around his head. “The blow knocked me unconscious, and when I awoke, I was trapped in a small, empty closet, stuck in a rather uncomfortable chair.”

Barry shifts his chair slightly, inching it forward until he has breached the distance between them. The young man reaches forward, tugging one of Harrison’s hands into his own. It is a tender gesture of support, and Barry’s hand is strong and warm.

Barry’s enhanced healing is working well, Harrison notes. The blood and the bruising from where the young man busted his knuckles against the wall yesterday are long gone, leaving smooth, unblemished skin. Unbidden, he strokes his thumb over that skin, and Barry shivers.

To distract himself from how nice it feels, the man known as Harrison Wells continues, “I remained there for approximately six hours. They had taken both my wallet and my cellphone, but they left me my watch.”

Barry smiles weakly. “A digital Chinese water torture, maybe? Looking at the seconds as they tick by?”

“Perhaps.” Harrison gives Barry’s hand a small squeeze, receives one in return. “During my time in the closet, I heard voices arguing. Snart and an unknown woman.”

“That’s–” Barry tilts his head, considering. “He has a minimum of two associates, then. The man who helped him break into S.T.A.R. Labs, and the woman you heard arguing with him. Maybe when we head back into the city, you can come by the police station with me? Go over some mugshots, see if you can identify either of them?”

Harrison nods, an easy agreement. “I never saw the woman,” he amends, “but I did get a clear look at the man when they took me from the cortex.”

The young man offers him another smile, this one soft and sweet, gentle with encouragement. There is only the slightest touch of hesitation in his voice. “What happened next?”

“Snart came for me, then,” Harrison replies. “Brought me out of the closet into what appeared to be – a cabin, I suppose? I must confess that nothing stood out to me. I can think of nothing that would help to narrow down the location.”

“A cabin makes sense.” Barry bites his lip. “Isolated. Probably on the outskirts of the city, a heavily wooded area. No neighbors to complain about – about–”

Gently, Harrison concludes, “–about the noise.”

Barry’s hand convulses, his grip on Harrison’s hand tightening, painful.

“I won’t lie to you, Barry,” the man known as Harrison Wells says. He doesn’t smile, though it takes every ounce of his control. He keeps his voice quiet, steady. “Your ex made it very clear that he was planning to torture me.”

The young man inhales sharply. Then, almost desperately, “I – are you sure?”

“He had – tools–” A pause, and Harrison allows himself the pleasure of watching Barry’s expression crumple in on itself. To drive home the point, he begins to list, “Hammer. Pliers. Knife. Wire. Car battery–”

“Stop. Please, I–” Barry’s voice trembles, muted and miserable. His grip on Harrison’s hand is hard enough to bruise. “Stop.”

They sit in silence. Barry’s breathing is unsteady, and neither of them speak until the young man has gotten himself back under control. He doesn’t look at Harrison as he says, “The doctors didn’t say – there wasn’t any sign of–” He trails off, apparently unable to complete the thought.

“The man in yellow, the Reverse-Flash–” The man known as Harrison Wells pauses, and Barry’s head jerks up. His eyes are full of unshed tears, and he is lovely. “He stopped Snart from hurting me. He took me from the cabin, knocked me out – and when I opened my eyes, I was in the hospital.”

Barry shakes his head, his voice confused and lost. “Why would Len do that?”

Injecting just a touch of hesitation into his tone, Harrison replies, “It is my belief that he is looking for you. Not the Flash, but _you_. Barry Allen.”

“Me?” Barry asks. Then, horrified, “He took you – because he couldn’t find me. He was willing to _hurt_ you – because of _me_. I – I’m going to–” Barry disappears from the room in the blink of an eye, and distantly Harrison can hear the sound of retching. 

Alone in the cortex, the man known as Harrison Wells allows the grin to stretch across his lips. It is quite possible that this will be the final, dividing wedge between Barry and Snart. And the absolute beauty of this moment isn’t lost on him, because not a single word spoken has been untrue.

Actually, in retelling his story to Barry, the man known as Harrison Wells realizes something he’s not had the time to process since his abduction and subsequent rescue. He is unsure as to which of the three criminals lifted his wallet and phone from him, but it’s likely that whoever it was left behind several fingerprints. The outside of the wallet is unlikely to hold any prints, but the smooth surface of the phone is an ideal container.

He doesn’t have the time to deal with it presently – if the faint sound of a sink running is any indication, Barry has finished throwing up and it washing the taste from his mouth – but it is something he will most certainly keep in mind. He cannot kill Snart, not without irreparably altering the timeline, but inciting a manhunt that will end in a lifelong jail sentence is certainly on the table. It’s an idea worth exploring with Snart’s fingerprints – perhaps planted on a weapon which will find itself pointed at, say, the city’s mayor?

The possibilities are without limit.

By the time Barry has returned, walking – likely to give himself an extra moment to compose himself – the man known as Harrison Wells has wiped all traces of glee from his expression.

Barry resumes his former position, slipping quietly into the chair across him Harrison. “Sorry,” he says hoarsely. “I’m sorry. You were saying, about – about the Reverse-Flash?” He doesn’t reach for Harrison’s hand a second time. Rather, he wrings his own two hands together, a gesture that speaks of helpless frustration.

Harrison offers, “You won’t like the answer, but I’ve been thinking about it since the hospital. Why the man in yellow has returned after fifteen years–”

“–because he never left,” Barry interjects flatly. “I’m not an idiot.”

The man known as Harrison Wells blinks, surprised. Before he can reply, Barry continues, “It’s the only possibility that makes any sense. The timing is too perfect to be otherwise.” A pause, then, hatefully, “He’s been _watching_ me.”

Barry wrings his hands furiously. When it looks as though he might actually hurt himself, Harrison inches his wheelchair forward, reaching out to grab the young man’s hands. 

“I’m sorry.” The words are out of his mouth before he can think about them, filter them. _How strange,_ the man known as Harrison Wells thinks, and his eyes widen a fraction. Because it’s true.

Barry snorts. He allows Harrison to pry his hands away from each other, even as he replies, “It’s not your fault. You’re as much of a victim in this as I am–”

 _Saint Barry_ , Harrison thinks, lost, and he leans forward to meet Barry’s mouth in a kiss–

Barry stops. Hesitates as he cocks his head to the side, listening.

The man known as Harrison Wells becomes aware of voices outside, drawing closer. He leans back, releasing Barry’s hands. He recognizes Caitlin’s voice easily, and is able to pick out Felicity without much difficulty. There is a loud rattle, and the door to the warehouse opens. Caitlin and Felicity, carrying several bags bearing Big Belly Burger’s logo, and behind them–

“Barry, look who we found!” Felicity announces, and two men step through the door, trailing behind her, arms laden with even more takeout bags. Instantly recognizable, Oliver Queen, whose eyes dart around the entirety of the warehouse, observing. Less recognizable, the tall, dark-skinned man who mirrors his steps, likely a bodyguard.

“Oliver!” Barry’s reaction is instant. He grins, wide and welcoming. The young man is across the room by Queen’s side, wrapping the recalcitrant billionaire in an all-encompassing bear hug.

“Barry.” Queen’s greeting is far less enthusiastic, and he awkwardly pats the young man’s back. A small, quietly vicious part of Harrison is entertained by the visual of Queen at a complete loss, but a larger part of him feels – irritation? – at Barry’s apparent closeness to the man.

As Barry pulls away, he turns to the other man, still smiling. “John,” he says, and offers his hand. The man doesn’t reply, blinking stupidly at where Barry was sitting when the group first entered the warehouse. More specifically, at the distance that Barry crossed in the blink of an eye.

“F-fast,” the bodyguard says, stunned.

Barry blinks, tilting his head to the side. “Oh! I’d assumed – I mean, didn’t Felicity and Oliver tell you?”

The man shudders, a movement that encompasses his whole body, like a hound shaking off water. It seems to jerk him out of his mental stupor, and he reaches out to clasp Barry’s hand. “They did, but – seeing is believing.”

“Oh!” Barry turns to face Harrison, still grinning. He gestures to the man and says, “Dr. Wells, this is John Diggle, Oliver’s bodyguard.” He jerks his head in Queen’s direction, “And I assume no introduction is needed for Oliver Queen?”

“I do, on rare occasion, watch the news,” the man known as Harrison Wells admits. Then, politely, “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Barry and Felicity have spoken highly of you.”

Barry is back across the room in a heartbeat, standing by Harrison’s wheelchair. He places on hand on Harrison’s shoulder, and says to Queen and Diggle, “Guys, this is Dr. Harrison Wells. Without him – well, I wouldn’t be here.”

Diggle mutters, “fast,” under his breath again, and there is a touch of childlike wonder in his eyes. Queen, by contrast, looks unimpressed. “Dr. Wells,” the billionaire greets, and his tone is anything but friendly. His eyes are fierce, piercing, and he stares at the man known as Harrison Wells as though he can see through him. “The pleasure is mine.”

Barry gives Harrison’s shoulder tiny squeeze before letting go. “So,” he says brightly to the group, greedily eyeing the takeout bags. “Lunch?”

At Caitlin’s suggestion, Queen and his bodyguard carry the folding table from the kitchen area into the cortex. In no time at all, there is a spread of burgers and fries, as well as two cases of soda that must have been picked up from a supermarket somewhere on the drive. Barry disappears briefly during the setup, dropping off a bag of food to both Nimbus and Black, locked away in the underground prison.

When he returns, conversation picks up easily around them. Caitlin and Felicity chat pleasantly with Diggle about the computer setup Felicity has created, and Barry and Queen fall into friendly banter. Or rather, Barry banters, and Queen tolerates.

The man known as Harrison Wells savors a bite of his burger and observes.

“I’ll have to give you the full tour after lunch,” Barry says to Queen. He gestures all around them with the french-fry he’s holding. “I have no idea how you found this place, but it’s amazing. I can’t thank you enough.” He pops the fry into his mouth, then reaches for a burger – by all evidence, his sixth.

“I’m pleased it worked out,” Queen replies modestly. Then, “Have you given any thought to my other offer?”

Barry frowns, then says instantly, almost rudely, “No.”

“Barry–” Queen begins, but the young man cuts him off, adamant as he shakes his head. Harrison sets his burger down, watching the exchange, and to the side, he sees that Caitlin, Felicity, and Diggle have quieted as well.

“No, Oliver. Just – no.” Barry sighs, lowering his burger. “Look, you know I appreciate your help, more than I can possibly put into words. And I value your advice, seriously, I do. But I’m not going to just – just throw these people aside–”

Queen scoffs, “They’re hardly just ‘people.’ They’re _dangerous_ , Barry.”

“Metahuman or not, dangerous or not,” Barry counters, “they’re still _people_ , okay? And I’m not going to lock them up on your super-secret island prison and throw away the key.”

“Lian Yu isn’t–” Queen begins, but Diggle coughs, a loud, fake sound, and Queen amends, “Fine, maybe it is a super-secret island prison. But it’s safer there–”

“For who?” Barry asks. “For the metahumans? Because from what you’ve told me, that place is hell. And I’m not saying I want to just – just – keep collecting these people like Pokemon or something. My whole team is working to find solutions to neutralize their abilities so that we can put them into a _real_ prison, like Iron Heights.”

Queen frowns. “If you’re certain–”

“I am. I really, totally am,” Barry says, and he picks up his burger and takes a bite. He notices all attention at the table is focused exclusively on him, and he flushes bright red. Abruptly, in an obvious change of subject, he asks Queen, “How long are you guys staying for?”

“Not sure,” Queen hedges.

Felicity pipes up, “We have to get back to Starling City eventually, but I’ve got a – friend – keeping an eye out for us.”

Queen nods, “They’ll let us know if anything happens that requires my attention. Until then, I was thinking of sticking around for about a week, help you get your – what did Felicity call it – ‘Flashcave’ – settled.”

Across the table, Caitlin points an accusatory finger and calls out, “ _Not_ what we’re calling it!”

Queen glances at Felicity, who pouts and crosses her arms, and suppresses a smile. It is the first truly positive emotion Harrison has seen cross the man’s perpetually scowling face.

Barry grins, “A week? That’s great! I have a ton of questions I wanted to–” There is a buzz from his pocket, and he stops to pull out his phone. He looks at it blankly for a moment, then answers, “Hello?”

The man known as Harrison Wells watches Barry’s expression closely, following each, “Yes? Yes. Really?” with abject fascination. Confusion gives way to surprise, surprise to joy. “I – thank you! Yes, yes, I’ll be there. Thank you!”

As Barry ends the call, he looks up, meeting Caitlin’s eyes, then Harrison’s. There are tears in his eyes, but they do not fall, and he laughs, “That was the hospital. Cisco’s awake!”

***


	45. [1/6] Episode 10: The Mad Hatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readership! I'm incredibly sorry that this chapter has taken me so long to post. I got distracted by a rather lengthy one-shot I wrote called "The Criminal Keeper," and I keep having ideas for that universe. :D Anyway, a huge thank you to everyone who has commented on my works recently; your support keeps me writing even on the worst of days. Also, as always, thank you to my beta, who gives me the confidence to keep posting even when I'm nervous.

***

When Barry, Caitlin, and the man known as Harrison Wells enter Cisco’s hospital room, there is a moment of tense silence. Dante, Cisco’s brother, sits vigilantly by the young engineer’s bedside. Though there are dark bruises beneath his eyes, and a pale, almost sickly pallor to his skin, he is smiling faintly. He holds one of Cisco’s hands as though it is something precious, cradled tenderly between both of his own.

At their entrance, Cisco struggles to sit up in his bed, fails, instead slurs, “Duude. Duudes.” He squints at Caitlin, perplexed. Then, in a tone reserved for the most startling of discoveries, he gasps, “Dude-lady!”

Beside Harrison, Barry snickers quietly. Cisco Ramon is indeed awake. Also, apparently blitzed halfway out of his mind on painkillers. If the young man remembers this conversation an hour from now, Harrison will eat his wheelchair. Really, it would be far more amusing, if not for the presence of Dante Ramon.

The man known as Harrison Wells surreptitiously glances around, noting a fresh vase of colorful flowers on the nightstand, as well as several discarded Styrofoam coffee cups in the trashcan. His lips compress to a thin, displeased line. Though he cannot _see_ Catalina Ramon in the nearby vicinity, he strains his ears, listening intently for any sign of the harpy.

Dante’s dark eyes narrow, focusing with unerring precision on Harrison’s expression, coupled with the subtle, straining tilt of his head. The young man snorts, shakes his head, stands. “You’re in luck, Dr. Wells. My mother already left for the night.”

“It was weird,” Cisco breathes reverently. He looks at Barry, and his voice becomes a little stronger. A bit too loud, it bears passing resemblance to a conspiratory whisper. “Dude, she was – she was–” A confused pause as he gropes for the right word. “– _motherly_.”

Dante winces.

Ignoring the slight undercut of tension in the room, or perhaps simply unaware of it, Caitlin walks to Cisco’s bedside, her tall, slender heels quietly clicking on the floor. Though Harrison can only see her back from where he is seated, he knows that she is smiling fondly, and she runs a gentle hand through the young engineer’s sweaty hair. 

And then, because Caitlin is nothing if not polite, she extends her free hand to Dante and introduces herself, “Caitlin Snow. Cisco and I work closely together at S.T.A.R. Laboratories.”

Dante carefully disentangles one of his hands from where he is still clutching at Cisco. The young man reaches out, accepts Caitlin’s hand. “Dante Ramon. Cisco’s brother.”

“Oh!” Innocently. “I didn’t know Cisco had a brother.”

Beneath their conjoined handshake, Cisco squints upwards and mumbles something like, “Squiggly wiggly, dude.”

Dante glances down at Cisco, and his expression is touched by a pained sort of fondness. “Yeah,” he replies quietly. His lips twist. “I get that a lot.” Then, glancing at where Barry and Harrison are waiting by the doorway, he says, “I’m staying here with Cisco overnight, but – I’ll leave you to visit in peace. I’m going to head down to the cafeteria, grab something to eat before they close.”

“That’s very kind of you. Thank you.” Relief and joy at Cisco’s recovery makes Caitlin’s voice warm and bright, and her expression must reflect some of that because Dante stares at her, momentarily stunned. Perhaps by this common curtsey from “the enemy”, or perhaps because Caitlin is an attractive young woman.

Likely a combination of both.

Shaking himself, Dante replies, “It’s nothing.” He dips his head forward, pressing a kiss to the crown of Cisco’s messy hair and adds, “I’ll be back in a bit, _hermano_. I’ll bring you a chocolate pudding or something.” He tugs his other hand free and makes a swift exit, brushing by both Harrison and Barry in the close quarters of the doorway.

Cisco squints after him and says, “So weird. Weirdly, um... _brotherly_.” His attention is quickly captured by Barry, who strides forward and claims the spot Dante has just vacated. He grins, wide and dopey. “Duude.”

The three of them paint a very pretty picture, Harrison must admit. Cisco, reclining in the bed with Caitlin to his left, and Barry to his right. Their hands are tangled together, a fleshy Celtic knot as each of them holds on tightly, unwilling to let go. It strikes a chord within him, but there is something that seems slightly off about the image. He pinpoints what is bothering him a moment later, and doesn’t quite know if he should laugh or cry. He settles for a snort.

Because Harrison is much more used to _Barry_ stretched out on a hospital bed, with Caitlin and Cisco as his silent supports. With this in mind, he chooses to hang back, content to observe.

On the bed, Cisco’s nose wrinkles endearingly and he grumbles to Caitlin, “Hands like _ice_ , dude-lady,” but he doesn’t make any move to release his hold.

“Yeah, _dude-lady_ ,” Barry snickers.

Caitlin makes a small, displeased sound. “Clearly his doctor has him on a strong analgesia.”

“The good stuff,” Cisco mumbles.

Caitlin’s expression melts into something soft and fond. “You have been sorely missed,” she murmurs, and she gives his hand a small, nearly imperceptible squeeze.

Barry nods vigorously, adding. “Dude, you slept though, like – _everything_.”

“Big badda boom,” Cisco contributes sagely.

Caitlin and Barry exchange glances, concerned, and Caitlin prompts, “You remember the explosion?”

Cisco hums noncommittally, then says, “Oh. Oh, shit, duude! There was a thing. Like, an important thing!” before cutting off abruptly with a quiet giggle.

The man known as Harrison Wells pinches the bridge of his nose. The good stuff, indeed.

***

In a nondescript warehouse in Central City, Len groans, stretching his arms above his head, curving his spine with the movement like an oversized cat. He feels three loud, gratifying pops, executed in quick succession. Satisfied, he drops back down into his chair and stares at his computer screen, sighing.

Having spent the last two hours pouring through local police files, Len can safely say that apart from one report from Barry as a child, there are no mentions of the Reverse-Flash, overt or otherwise. It’s as if he appeared from thin air the night of Nora Allen’s murder, committed his crime, and disappeared, transient, like a puff of cigarette smoke. There is a slim possibility that the man left the city immediately following his crime, perhaps to kill elsewhere, but Len can’t muster up the willpower to believe it.

Simply put, it’s a possibility that makes sense, whereas there is _nothing_ about this situation that makes sense. A normal conclusion, which in a room full of unusual circumstances, stands out like a sore thumb.

Len still plans on doing some snooping on the national scale, sorting through a backlog of unsolved murders, but he doubts it will turn up any new evidence. Against all odds, his gut it telling him that the impossible man in yellow has been in Central City this entire time, laying low. To murder an innocent woman in cold blood, then turn around and continue on for years as though nothing is amiss. It’s a terrifying prospect.

The Reverse-Flash is a terrifying monster.

 _Man_ , Len amends, frustrated despite himself. _Terrifying, yes, but still a man, dammit._

Because monsters are the stuff of legend, but men? Men bleed red and suffer, all the same.

However, to hunt this new, impossible man, Len needs more information. The Flash left a trail of breadcrumbs to be followed, directly back to S.T.A.R. Labs. On the other hand, the Reverse-Flash only has one known connection, and Len didn’t stumble upon anything suspicious during his first background check of Harrison Wells.

Rather than let his irritation color his research, Len stands, making his way towards the other end of the warehouse where he can hear Lisa laughing. He picks his way around a pile of crates, only to draw himself up short, blinking in confusion.

Mick is sitting on top of a case of his favorite brand of beer. He takes a swig from the bottle in his hand, and his other hand is splayed out in front of him, affording Lisa full access to his short-bitten fingernails. Lisa is perched directly by Mick’s side, also sitting on a case of Mick’s favorite beer. Her head is bowed, her brow furrowed in concentration as she works, deftly moving the tiny brush between her fingers is steady, even strokes. She paints a nail, blowing softly to help it dry, then transitions smoothly to the next.

A corner of Len’s mind notes that Mick’s other hand, the one that holds the beer, is already finished. Every nail is solid black, except for his ring finger which bears a stylized red and orange flame design, complete with a sparkling rhinestone.

A few feet away, Roy Bivolo sits on a crate. He is sipping a beer and watching Mick and Lisa with silent curiosity. His fingernails are painted a garish shade of neon green, because apparently hazing the newbie involves making Len’s eyes bleed. Lovely.

“Well,” Len says blankly. “This is nice.”

Bivolo shifts his weight slightly, subtly leaning away from Len. Apparently their first meeting is going to color his actions for the time being, and the sound of Len’s voice means fear and flight. 

Lisa doesn’t look up, focused on her work, but Mick tilts his head back to meet Len’s eyes. He raises his beer, a friendly salute, and says, “You owe me some phosphorous grenades, buddy.”

“I also owe you two cases of beer,” Len replies, eyeing the boxes Lisa and Mick are sitting on.

“ _Owed_ ,” Mick says, his voices a low grumble, like a rockslide on a rainy afternoon. “Past tense.”

Len’s eyes slide to his little sister, who looks entirely too smug. “What have I told you about stealing my wallet, Lisa?” he asks on a hunch.

“That I shouldn’t do it if I’m going to get caught?” Lisa replies absently, and she closes up the small bottle of black paint, twisting the cap to seal it tight. She places it by her booted feet, fussing with the other bottles, red and orange and glittery clear, lifting them delicately by their tops as she shakes them. She arranges them, from tall to small, then again, alphabetical by color. 

“I do believe that’s what I told you about stealing _anyone’s_ wallet,” Len says, mouth pinched. “However, I’m fairly certain I had something very specific to say about my own wallet.”

“Really?” Lisa hedges. “I don’t–”

Len sighs. “My exact word, Lisa. It was singular, and it was ‘No.’”

His little sister rolls her eyes and replies airily, “I didn’t hear you, I suppose.” Unrepentant. “So sorry.”

Knowing when he has lost, Len glares and states, “You are a menace, to society at large, but mostly to me.”

“You promised to buy Mick beer. I bought Mick beer with your money. What’s the problem?” Lisa grumbles. She checks Mick’s nails, finds them dry if her squeal of delight is any indication, and reaches for the little bottle of red nail polish by her feet.

Before Len can respond, Mick interjects, “Grenades. I still don’t have ‘em.”

Len rolls his eyes. “What exactly did you think I was having you pick up from the docks?”

Instantly alert, Mick goes very, very still. “Guns. I looked.”

“Vasquez threw in a couple of handguns for free because he overcharged me for the grenades. Which are at the very bottom of the bag. Which is still sitting in the backseat of the car.”

There is an expression on Mick’s face which Len might call “puppy-eyes” on anyone else. He turns that look on Lisa, who snorts and swats him on shoulder. “Fine.” She sets the little bottle down. “But if you mess up your nails, I will drug your beer and shave every part of your body while you’re sleeping.”

“Get me half a dozen more phosphorous grenades and you can do it while I’m awake,” Mick grins wolfishly, all teeth. He slides off of his makeshift seat and bolts for the door, leaving Lisa with a positively speculative look on her face.

Lisa looks at Len and opens her mouth.

“No,” Len says without missing a beat.

His little sister closes her mouth. Pouts. Opens her mouth again.

“No,” Len repeats firmly, and his eyes narrow to slits. Because saying yes will end with him scrubbing his brain with bleach, and he loves his sister and Mick will always be his best friend, but there are some things that can never be unseen.

Then again, saying no to Lisa isn’t a particularly effective deterrent. He needs something to distract her.

Bivolo snickers softly, and Len glares at him. The man falls instantly silent, and it’s nice to see that at least one person in his crew is properly terrified of him. Then again, Lisa and Mick have been exposed to his moods and his methods for years. It’s only natural that they’ve built up an immunity.

Len’s eyes focus on Bivolo’s painted nails, bright green and nauseating. Curious, he asks, “You’re not upset?”

The man in question blinks, apparently startled at being addressed directly. His tone, though cautions, is intrigued. “Upset?”

Len points to the garish nail polish. “As an artist, I’d think you’d take offense to that sort of color.”

“Hey!” Lisa huffs, a mild protest.

Bivolo smiles faintly at his nails, splaying his fingers to examine them in the washed-out lighting. His expression is touched by a gentle sort of sadness as he replies, “It doesn’t bother me.”

Something about that statement bothers Len, though. Bivolo’s tone speaks of irony, but the statement is straightforward. Strange.

“You know, Lenny,” Lisa interjects conversationally, and unlike Bivolo, Len has no trouble placing her tone. It makes the hairs on his neck stand at attention, tiny, terrified soldiers. “This has been a real bonding experience. Good for morale.”

Len surreptitiously inches towards the doorway where Mick made his escape. He keeps his tone pleasant. Uninterested. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Lisa continues. “We all match.” She holds up her hand, showing off her glittery, golden nails, each tip accented with a strip of solid, shiny black. Her middle finger is the exception to this pattern, sporting a small, stylized dollar sign painted in black, the base of which is punctuated by a clear rhinestone. “Well,” she amends, and fixes him with a look he learned to fear in his childhood. “ _Almost_ all of us.”

“I should go,” Len says.

Lisa smiles. It’s sweet and sly, and Len’s fucked, there’s really no point in trying to pretend otherwise. 

Still. “I should–”

“Sit,” Lisa says.

Len takes three steps forward, makes a face, and sits.

***

The man known as Harrison Wells spends the majority of this hospital visit lurking in the background. Caitlin and Barry are both far better at the idle chatter, and Cisco certainly isn’t in any condition to be retaining any of the information they’re imparting. The young engineer alternates between giggling alertness and a confused, bleary expression, both of which are interrupted by repeated mentions of “squiggly wigglies.”

Harrison’s best guess is that Cisco’s tolerance for these kinds of painkillers is so low, he’s experiencing minor hallucinations. Either that, or the ceiling falling on his head did irreparable damage. The latter is unlikely though; none of the Ramons have mentioned it, and it seems like the sort of thing they would be thrilled to blame on him.

“It’s getting late,” he mentions quietly from where he sits. Three heads swivel towards the sound of his voice, surprised. Did they completely forget about his presence? His lips curve into a slight smile. _How very – unusual._

A faint flush of red creeps up the side of Barry’s neck, and Caitlin nods emphatically, “Of course, Dr. Wells. And you’ve only just gotten out of the hospital yourself. You should be resting.”

Harrison waves a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” He smiles again experimentally, delighting at the blush that reaches Barry’s cheeks, bright and pink. He continues, “But we have a bit of a drive ahead of us, almost an hour by car, and that’s only if we’re all heading to the same place.” He doesn’t mention the warehouse, though he doubts that anyone is listening. Still, it costs him nothing to be mindful. To be cautious.

Caitlin nods in agreement, slightly embarrassed as she admits, “I’d forgotten, actually. It’s practically autopilot, these days, to go back to S.T.A.R. Labs.”

Barry shakes himself slightly. It looks as though it takes him actual, physical effort to tear his eyes away from Harrison’s face. Flattering, really. The young man bumps his shoulder against Caitlin amicably and says, “It’ll take about a week or so, but we’ll get it back. And in the meantime, we can rough it out in the woods.”

“S’mores,” Cisco giggles from his spot on the bed. “You can – um – you can get Ronnie. To light the fire.”

The smile on Caitlin’s face drops so quickly, it’s like the flip of a switch. “Ronnie’s dead,” she says, her voice flat. She pulls her hands away, stepping back from the bed. Then, without inflection, “Sorry, I. I need to use the restroom. I’ll meet you both down at the car.” 

Her heels click out a short, angry staccato as she marches out of the room, and the sounds fades down the hallway until it disappears entirely. Barry is pale, all the color having drained out of him in the face of Caitlin’s sorrow, and he pats Cisco’s hand gently.

Cisco frowns at the doorway, perplexed. He looks up at Barry and comments, “Squiggly wiggly, dude. Like, all the wiggly.” Then he squints, his nose scrunching up as he asks, “Hey, dude, does it count as stealing someone’s face if you plan on giving it back?”

Barry sighs, leaning down to wrap his arms around Cisco in a gentle hug. “I have no idea, dude. Get better soon, okay? And I don’t know if you’ll remember this or not, but I’ll talk to Caitlin, okay? She can’t hold you accountable for what you say when you’re on this many drugs – and she knows that. You just surprised her, buddy.”

“Okies,” Cisco replies, staring at Barry intently. “You hafta remember that, too. Can’t be held accountable.”

Barry laughs and shakes his head. “I’m not the one on the good stuff,” he denies.

During the short farewell, the man known as Harrison Wells remains rooted to the spot. He replays that sentence in his head a second time. Then a third.

_Does it count as stealing someone’s face if you plan on giving it back?_

_Oh, Cisco,_ he thinks, appalled, and he watches these two young men, the innocent familiarity between them. _I hope this insight of yours is short lived. Having just gotten you back, I’d truly hate to kill you so soon._

“Bad stuff,” Cisco says dreamily. He closes his eyes and repeats, “Bad, bad stuff.”

***

_hermano_ (spanish): brother 

***


	46. [2/6] Episode 10: Clever Elsie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readership. The overwhelming response to the last chapter (and my rather lengthy hiatus on this fic) prompted me to get this update out sooner rather than later. Thank you all for the comments, which I will be responding to in a couple of days, probably.
> 
> [Here](http://townwithoutheart.tumblr.com/post/148153200847/fanart-that-i-made-myself-for-my-fanfic-bolt-from) is a piece of fanart (I made it myself!) for the Great Nail Painting Party of '16 from the last chapter, and a huge thanks to my beta for all of her patience with me during the writing of this chapter. Because I think I sent her, like, ten e-mails while I was working through this?

***

After an uncomfortable night, sleeping fitfully on a lumpy cot in one of the small, confining rooms at the far end of the warehouse, the man known as Harrison Wells is in a positively foul mood. While he can appreciate Barry’s desire to keep their ragtag team together in light of recent events, it doesn’t make these living conditions any easier to palate. 

Perhaps Barry wants Harrison and Caitlin within arm’s reach because there is the illusion of safety in numbers, or perhaps he feels that as the only one with metahuman abilities, he is responsible for their protection. Likely a little of both, with a side dish of helpless guilt, because Cisco is still in the hospital, and with one of their number outside the young man’s purview, he overcompensates by pulling the others closer.

Being privy to Barry’s legendary bedhead before the young man left for work was arguably worth a single night of “roughing it,” but Harrison fully intends to play up his nonexistent injuries if it means a night in his own king-sized bed. Not that there aren’t a myriad of other difficulties to complain about in the incomplete facility – the lack of showers, the limited number of toilets, none of which are wheelchair accessible, and the temporary kitchen area which is not stocked with any of the necessary provisions for survival, let alone comfort.

In time, this warehouse will become a serviceable secondary base. Presently, however, it is barely functional. And until S.T.A.R. Labs is repaired, that limited functionality is as good as it gets, because it is impossible to schedule any high-scale construction while concealing two prisoners in the basement.

The man known as Harrison Wells smirks, a small, mirthless twist of his lips. That sort of thing is bound to raise bad press, after all. He’s quite grateful that during Caitlin’s interview with the CCPD, she managed to spin the existence of their pipeline prison as optional cubby holes for employees to sleep in when they chose to work late hours on a project and needed a place to crash.

The CCPD. The attack on S.T.A.R. Labs. The memory of Snart and Eiling’s two-pronged attack. All of it culminates into simmering, agitated fury, which Harrison chooses to channel into something productive. While Caitlin works in the cortex, researching their most recent meta-threat – one Roy Bivolo, whom the young woman has taken to calling “the Rainbow Raider” – Harrison spends the entire morning on his cellphone, contacting construction companies and security firms.

Beyond repairing the damages left by the rocket launcher, Harrison has decided to use this opportunity to increase _all_ of their security. Due to the volatile nature of the particle accelerator, the walls of the pipeline are already reinforced with carbon-fiber plating. The _ceilings_ , however, are not, and neither is the full perimeter of the building. The specialized plating was deemed unnecessary in both of those areas during the initial construction of the facility.

It will take time, but these oversights must be corrected. If General Wade Eiling plans to make a nuisance of himself in the future, the man known as Harrison Wells has no intention of being caught with his metaphorical pants around his ankles a second time.

Barry, a blur of red polymer and yellow lightning, skids into the warehouse sometime during the afternoon. The young man clutches several bags of Big Belly Burger for lunch, and he drops all but two of the bags onto the long folding table, still situated on the outskirts of the cortex. Before either Harrison or Caitlin can nod a greeting, Barry disappears, likely dashing off to feed Nimbus and Black.

“Yes, that’s acceptable,” Harrison says into the phone. A pause, and the gentleman on the other end of the phone confirms the lab address. Then, “I’ll see you tomorrow at one o’clock, sharp. Thank you.”

It is a testament to Barry’s increased speed that he returns before Harrison has completely finished his conversation.

The long table has yet to find itself back in the designated kitchen, because the cortex has the highest ratio of swivel chairs, and is the most spacious area of the warehouse. As such, it’s the only logical place to partake in a shared meal, especially when it involves more than two people. Caitlin pushes away from her workstation, and the man known as Harrison Wells thumbs the ‘end call’ button on his phone, tucking the device into his pocket as he wheels himself towards the tantalizing scent of charred beef.

“Everything okay?” Barry asks, concerned, as he plops down onto one of the chairs. He pushes back the red cowl of his uniform to reveal tussled, brown hair. Reaching for one of the takeout bags, he dumps several burgers onto the table, selecting one at random and unwrapping it.

“Just finalizing a rather promising appointment with a security consultant,” Harrison replies, snagging one of the burgers for himself.

“Oh!” Caitlin exclaims, looking relieved as she sits down. “You mean the police finally cleared us to access S.T.A.R. Labs again? When did that happen?” She pinches a ketchup packet between her thumb and forefinger, shakes it briskly. After tearing the top open and squeezing the contents onto a napkin, she dabs a fry into the condiment and pops it into her mouth.

Without waiting for a response, Barry prompts, “Security consultant?”

“This morning,” Harrison replies easily, unwrapping his burger. To Caitlin, he continues, “You seemed quite engaged in your research, and I didn’t wish to disturb you. I’ve spoken to the foreman who was originally in charge of site, and both cleanup and repair should be taken care of within the week.” He pauses to take a bite of his burger, then adds, “As for the security consultant, well. Apart from our cameras–”

“–which were hacked–” Barry grumbles.

“–and the one perfunctory guard, who doesn’t even start his shift until late in the night.” Harrison pauses, carefully searching for the right words. Finally, he says, “It has come to my attention that we are quite – vulnerable – when we’re at the labs. With metahumans being exclusive to the Central City area, General Eiling isn’t going to leave them – or us – alone. And if both Hartley and Cold were able to suss out our location by following the Flash, it’s possible others will as well. I’m hoping the consultant will have some ideas on how to tighten our defenses, as it were.”

Because he is attuned to the slightest shift in expression on Barry’s face, Harrison can easily pick out a sliver of guilt. It is in the slight pinch of his mouth, the embarrassed flush of his cheeks. Rather than let the young man wallow in these misplaced feelings, Harrison assures him, “You cannot blame yourself for the actions of others. Cisco, Caitlin, myself – we have all made the choice to be here. We have all accepted the dangers that come with this job.” 

Caitlin nods. “This job isn’t what I signed up for, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t love the science. And the challenge.” A pause, then wryly, “Though if we could all go perhaps _one_ day without an ‘accident’ at the workplace.”

Their words seem to help; the guilt is still there, in the small creases at the corners of Barry’s lips, but less. Noticeable lighter, Barry grins and teases, “Like you don’t look for any excuse to get this biology,” he gestures to himself, “under your microscope.”

Caitlin giggles, a sweet, girlish sound, and counters, “As I’m quite certain it isn’t _my_ microscope you’re actually interested in, maybe you’d better rethink that statement.”

Crude, yet Harrison feels his lips twist in amusement.

By contrast, Barry flushes bright red, spluttering. Caitlin’s cleverly vicious double entendre is entirely unexpected, but the young woman isn’t done. With a sly look at Harrison, she adds, “You know, I think you might need to have a talk with your – protégé – about how often he ends up on his back–”

“–Caitlin!” Barry squeaks.

“–in other people’s beds–”

“–CAITLIN!”

Pursing her lips, she quirks a brow at Barry’s beet-red expression, then amends grudgingly, “... hospital beds. That sort of davenport promiscuity is a bit – dangerous.” She grins smugly, grabs a burger, and tilts her head back, indicating the computers. “Instead of embarrassing my coworkers, perhaps I’ll spend my energy on something to counter the Rainbow Raider. Thanks for lunch, Barry.”

She stands and retreats to her computer, unwrapping her burger as she walks. Barry leans forward and mouths, “Rainbow Raider?” He is still bright red, but he makes a show of scrunching up his face in disbelief as he mock whispers, “And she had the nerve to complain about ‘Flashcave?’”

“Not what we’re calling it!” Caitlin replies, her voice raised to breach the distance.

Barry slouches down in his chair and childishly sticks his tongue out at Caitlin’s retreating back. Harrison snorts, shakes his head.

They continue to eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, and then Barry abruptly asks, “Out of curiosity, is everything...? I mean, between the security updates and the repairs to the building, that’s got to be pretty expensive.”

Harrison dismisses Barry’s concerns with a casual wave of his hand. “Insurance will cover the cost of the repairs. And while I do not contend with the financial circles of, say, Mr. Queen, I am nonetheless quite well-off. Between the royalties from my book, as well as several, rather lucrative patents owned by S.T.A.R. Labs, the upgrades in security will barely dent my savings.”

The young man lets out a relieved sigh. “Good. That’s good. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I think better security at the labs is important. The only real problem I have is that it took a series of unfortunate events for us to realize it was necessary.”

With a half-smile, the man known as Harrison Wells reaches out to steal one of Barry’s fries. He shrugs and says, “Better late than never? Learn from mistakes, don’t repeat them? There are quotes throughout history dedicated to that particular fault of humanity. Take your pick.”

Without warning, Barry is a blur of red, zipping around the table to kneel directly in front of Harrison’s wheelchair. The young man very deliberately leans forward, his mouth on Harrison’s hand. He reclaims the stolen French fry with his teeth, as well as one of Harrison’s fingers.

Barry’s tongue is warm and slick, and he swirls it around the tip of Harrison’s finger before gently scraping his teeth along the skin as he pulls back. The noise, that lewd, wet little pop, makes Harrison think of Barry’s mouth on something else. And apparently he’s not the only one, judging by the red that creeps up the sides of Barry’s neck. Barry’s eyes have a hazy look, glazed with desire, and the tiny flick of his tongue darting along his parted lower lip does something wicked to Harrison’s cock.

And because Barry is already kneeling in front of him, it’s all too easy to let his imagination take hold of this dangerous fantasy. The young man’s eyes are fixed on the fabric of his pants, pulling taut across his lap, tenting up as he feels himself grow hard.

This is a terrible idea. Caitlin is barely twenty feet away, her back to them, her focus on her computer screen. His self-control is damned near legendary, but there is no way he will be able to keep his legs completely inert against the promise of Barry’s mouth.

Then Barry smirks, still blushing, deceptively innocent. He rocks back on his heels, putting scant inches of space between them as he stares up at Harrison through lashes that should be fucking outlawed. The young man makes a show of it, chewing the fry, swallowing. His voice is an actual whisper this time, breathless but not hesitant, and he demurs, “How about ‘You only live once?’”

“Contextually irrelevant–” he replies, but Barry surges up, his fingers digging into the flesh of Harrison’s legs, their mouths coming together into a kiss undone by desire. This has been building, a natural progression, and it’s a terrible idea, the urge to bend this beautiful man over every surface in this warehouse, horizontal or otherwise. A speedster’s refractory period is a both a gift and a curse, and this is, this is– 

Harrison’s fingers thread through Barry’s hair, tightening, and the younger man chokes off a half-gasp that Harrison swallows whole. There is a groan or a growl caught somewhere low in his throat, and this is an amazing idea, why the fuck had he thought otherwise– 

His pants vibrate, and the impersonal ringtone that came with his phone chimes obnoxiously. Barry pulls back, startled, and laughs when he realizes where the noise is coming from. The added distance between them helps to clear Harrison’s head a little, and he pulls the phone out of his pocket.

The name that scrolls across the screen gives him pause: JOE WEST.

He flicks the screen, thumbing the “answer” icon. “Hello?” he asks, aiming for casual. Barry’s hands are still on his legs, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to not move under the weight of – expectation? Possibility? Something wretched and poetic, and now he’s thinking about Barry’s mouth on his dick, and fuck. Fuck Joe West and his unscientific fatherly cock-blocking superpower.

Do Ms. West and his pathetic ancestor have to deal with this?

“Dr. Wells,” West says, and Barry must be able to hear who is on the other end of the phone because he jerks back as if burned, looking for all the world like his adoptive father caught him with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

The cookie jar which is a metaphor for Harrison’s pants. 

The man known as Harrison Wells tries to focus on breathing.

“Is Barry there?” West asks, and Harrison stares at the younger man in front of him for just a moment, taking in the red stained lips and deceptively disheveled hair. In the lengthy pause, West continues, “Sorry, he left his phone here at the precinct, I’m guessing because the suit has no place for pockets. Anyway, he mentioned he was going to drop off lunch for the gang?”

“Yes,” Harrison finally responds. “He’s here.”

“Great,” West says. “Tell him to get his ass back to the station. His lunch break was over five minutes ago and the Captain is looking for him.” And without waiting for a confirmation, the other man hangs up.

“Crap,” Barry says, pulling his cowl up over his head. “Captain Singh is looking for me? Crap crap crap. I have to – crap.”

Shaking his head at the absurdity of it, the man known as Harrison Wells shakes his head and urges, “Go.”

“Yeah,” Barry replies, but he doesn’t leave. He leans forward and kisses Harrison again, chaste and sweet. “But this is intermission. Halftime.”

“Go,” Harrison repeats, not liking the fluttering thrill he feels in response to that admission.

Grinning like a cat that’s got the cream, Barry goes.

The cream which is a metaphor for–

_Fuck. Fucking fuck._

The man known as Harrison Wells takes a deep, calming breath.

***

A few hours later, Barry rejoins them in the cortex with Joe West in tow. Barry is dressed in casual clothing, likely just having gotten done at the precinct. There is the telltale sound of a vehicle pulling up outside of the warehouse, and then the pair of them are walking through the doorway, side by side. Barry is grinning, saying, “Sorry, sorry. I know it’s a heck of a drive, but thanks for coming out, Joe. Let me give you the tour.”

“Yeah,” West replies, sighing. He glances around, nodding a polite greeting to both Harrison and Caitlin where they sit together at a workstation. “About that.”

Barry pulls up short, brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

West makes a disgruntled face, quirking a brow as he says, “I didn’t want to ruin the drive up here, but – the Arrow. He was spotted in Central City last night. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Baer?"

“I – huh?”

Barry’s attempt at innocent deflection is so painfully obvious that Caitlin winces from where she’s working at the computer. The man known as Harrison Wells makes it a point to focus his attention on the screen as well, giving the two men the illusion of privacy while still shamelessly able to eavesdrop.

“The Arrow. Central City.” West’s voice is not amused.

Barry sighs. “Okay! I know, alright? I mean, after the mess at S.T.A.R. Labs, I called him because I needed help. We even did some – um – training, I guess.” A pause, then petulantly, “What's the problem, Joe?”

West’s frown makes his voice heavy with the weight of disapproval. It’s a skill, really. “Oh, I don’t know. I don't trust him?”

“You don’t even know him!” Barry protests.

There is a pause, and Harrison risks a glance at West’s face. The other man’s mouth is pinched. Angry. “I know that he’s wanted for murder in at least twelve separate investigations dating back three years. I know that there’s been two major terrorist attacks in Startling City since he became active. I know that he’s hospitalized over one hundred petty criminals–”

“Okay, geez.” Barry holds out a hand as if he can physically stop the litany of accusations. “But the cops are cool with him now? He doesn’t kill people–”

“–anymore,” West stresses, something dark and unhappy staining his voice. “He doesn’t kill people _anymore_.”

“He’s a hero, Joe!”

West shakes his head vehemently, denying Barry’s claim even as he states, “ _You’re_ a hero, Barry.” A frustrated pause, as if he can’t understand how someone like Barry can support someone like the Arrow. He tries again, “You offer protection – light and hope. What that man does is carry out a dark reckoning for his city. It’s brutal and violent, and I don’t call that justice. I call that a vendetta.”

The man known as Harrison Wells sees it then, how Barry can’t actually disagree with West’s words, so he doesn’t even try. It’s – interesting. That Barry can forgive a man who so easily, so readily killed. And why? Because he doesn’t anymore?

With quiet conviction, West surmises, “You think he’s a hero? Fine. But I don’t care how you spin his actions, he’s not someone you should be looking up to.”

Barry’s expression is mulish. Finally, he replies, “You know... you raised me. Taught me. Gave me half of the foundation I needed to become who I am today. And I love and respect you more than I can say, Joe.” A pause, then, “But on this? We’re going to have to agree to disagree.”

By Harrison’s side, Caitlin is sitting so still, he can actually feel the tension emanating off of her in tiny, uncomfortable tremors.

There is silence where Detective West and Barry stare at each other, neither one giving an inch. West gives first, clearing his throat as he asks, “So – about that tour?”

Barry smiles, hesitant but warm, and inclines his head towards the sleeping quarters and what will one day be the kitchen. “Yeah. Let me show you.”

As the pair walk out of hearing distance, Caitlin lets out a long, relieved sigh, and glances over at Harrison. She shivers, a small thing that somehow shakes her whole body, and mumbles, “Well, that wasn’t uncomfortable.” Then she points out a data cluster and they lose themselves in the work.

***

Some time later, after the good Detective and Barry have taken a complete tour of the facilities, the older man having been inundated with innumerable ideas for future plans and improvements, the pair make their way back to the cortex.

“Sorry about that,” West says, slipping into an empty swivel chair after greeting Harrison and Caitlin. “I actually came here with Barry because I wanted to talk to all of you.”

“Is everything alright, Detective?” Caitlin asks, ever inquisitive. She scoots her chair over to make room for Barry, who wedges his seat between her swivel chair and Harrison’s wheelchair.

West’s eyes narrow slightly at the movement, but he makes no comment. To Caitlin, he says, “Call me Joe. You save my kid’s life regularly; I think we’re beyond formalities at this point.” He pauses, takes deep breath, and continues, “I want to bring Eddie – my partner, I mean, Eddie Thawne – in on this operation.”

Beside Harrison, Barry straightens in his chair, startled. It’s clear that this is his first time hearing about West’s future plans.

Quietly, to stave off any protest, West quantifies, “Not on you, Barry, and not on the team. But on the dangers out there, on the metahuman criminals who’ve been cropping up.” The older man shrugs, running a nervous hand through the back of his short hair. He continues, “These people aren’t going away, and eventually the police are going to need to step up. We can’t just bury our heads in the sand and hope you can deal with all of it, Baer. So I want to start small. I want to start with Eddie.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harrison catches Caitlin nodding. At his look, she gives a small shrug and defends, “You have to admit, Dr. Wells – it’s only logical.”

The corner of West’s mouth quirks, a humorless thing. “He’s been asking the right sort of questions around the station, been pitching a taskforce to Singh, looking into the weird explanations for the weird cases.”

“You think he’s willing to believe the impossible,” Barry hazards.

“I think he’s at least willing to listen,” West counter. “And that’s more than I can say for ninety percent of the CCPD. They’re good men, good cops – but they’re not ready for this.”

“Not yet,” the man known as Harrison Wells amends. He hesitates, but it needs to be said. Because as much as he will dislike working in close quarters with his worthless ancestor, this too is a natural progression. “Right now, you’re alone. But Detective – Thawne, is it? He makes two.”

It’s a bittersweet taste in his mouth, to say his true family name aloud, one on which he cannot afford to dwell.

To his left, Caitlin leans forward in her chair and theorizes, “And you’ll keep any eye out for other officers who have run-ins with the impossible, who might be willing to listen?”

“Exactly.” West nods once, decisive. “I mean, we have to start somewhere. But we’ll continue to expand our forces until eventually the existence of metahumans becomes reality.” Directing his attention to Harrison, he adds, “When Cisco is out of the hospital, could you ask him to work on some designs for us? Additions to Iron Heights that will enable the containment of metahumans. Blueprints for a new wing, maybe? Something solid to pitch to the Mayor.”

Harrison nods. “Of course.”

Abruptly, Barry interjects, “Do you know what’s happening with – with the officer who was shot?”

“Officer Carson?” West blinks. “He’s still in the ICU, but he’s stable. And Officer Pierce is currently suspended from active duty, pending investigation, but when Carson woke up, he testified that he turned his weapon on Pierce at the same time. Pierce just happened to be quicker. Working theory involves an airborne hallucinogen.”

Barry sags back into his chair, breathing out softly, a shallow sigh of relief. Then, sharper, “What about the woman who shot the man at the bank?”

“How the hell–?” West shakes his head. “With everything that happened at S.T.A.R. Labs, how the hell did you find the time to hear about that?”

“Eyes and ears,” Barry replies, waving his hand to indicate the computer screens all around them. The man known as Harrison Wells is amazed there isn’t even a touch of smugness in the young man’s voice. Just earnestness and unbending determination, as though the weight of the world is his to carry and no one will convince him otherwise.

“If the investigation can prove that our officers were affected by outside forces that incited the violence, then we can probably make a case for accidental homicide for her.” The good Detective looks troubled, clearly seeing the difficulty of the situation. In a world where metahumans are unknown, no one can truly understand what compelled this woman to kill another human being. Clearly trying to lighten the mood, West adds, “She doesn’t have a criminal record, has literally never held a gun before in her life. A couple of parking tickets does not an axe murder make.”

Barry smiles wanly. “I think you’re butchering something there. I should have you arrested for word-slaughter.”

“In the first degree,” West admits with a shameless shrug. “Anyway, since you’re so well-informed, then I suppose you don’t need me to tell you about this?” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, plastic evidence bag which he tosses to Barry. It is easily caught, and as Barry holds the bag up to the light, brow furrowed in concentration, Harrison is given a clear view of the contents.

It’s a bullet.

“Dug that out of a weird-looking body in the morgue,” West says. “Coroner said he’s never seen anything quite like it; he’s talking drugs, but the tox screen came back clean. Apart from the obvious cause of death,” a brief jerk of his chin, indicating the bullet, “there was a lot of – harvesting, I guess you’d call it. Postmortem.”

“Harvesting?” Caitlin asks, lips pursed together, curious.

“Whoever killed our victim collected a whole lot of samples, doc. Samples of soft tissue, of internal organs, of bone. Body was drained of blood, extracted with a syringe if the number of track marks dotting his major arteries is any indication.” The older man makes a face. “And through a process I’d rather not be asked to explain in detail, the coroner assured me that samples of urine and semen were taken.”

It is a testament to the mindset of a scientist that Caitlin’s response is a noncommittal hum, followed by, “Samples of saliva were collected as well, I imagine?”

“No real way to confirm, but given the nature of the crime, it’s likely,” West replies.

“Geez,” Barry says, looking slightly ill. “Is there an ID on the body?”

West nods, leaning forward in his seat. “Guy’s name was Farooq Gibran. He disappeared almost a year ago, on the night the particle accelerator made its debut.”

Barry blinks, and it’s fascinating to watch his mind working furiously, synapses blazing with each connection he makes. He says, “You said he had a ‘weird-looking’ body. He’s – I mean, was he a metahuman?” The young man tosses the evidence bag back to West, telegraphing the move so as not to surprise his foster father.

West catches it, tucks it away in his pocket. “I think so. That’s why the coroner suspected some sort of drug use – even postmortem, drained of all blood, the guy’s veins are distended, black in color.”

Caitlin hums again, fascinated. “Would it be possible for me to examine the body?”

The good Detective shrugs, an almost imperceptible shift of his shoulders. “Maybe? I’ll talk to the coroner, let him know I’ve got a couple of doctors available for a consult.” To Barry, West adds, “What’s interesting, though, is that the vic’s fingerprints came back on one of our old cases from the night of the explosion – two bodies found electrocuted near a power transformer. It was ruled an accident, but there was a third set of fingerprints taken from the only vehicle found at the scene. Though they were wanted for questioning, the owner of those prints was never identified.”

The man known as Harrison Wells prompts, “And Mr. Gibran’s fingerprints?”

“A perfect match,” West sighs. “Not that he can tell us what happened now, what with the bullet hole in his forehead. But I can make an educated guess.” He holds up his hand, ticking off each point as he speaks. “Fact: he and his friends were out there the night of the explosion. Fact: that particular power transformer has a straight view of S.T.A.R. Labs. They probably went there to get a look at the accelerator when it was first turned on.”

Barry nods at the assessment, his head bobbing like he’s treading water. He says, “And when the explosion hit, something must have happened. You said Gibran’s friends were electrocuted?”

“Yeah,” West replies, and he frowns. “It happened right next to a power transformer. And if our victim became a metahuman who could somehow manipulate, absorb, or redirect electricity, then he would have survived whatever killed his buddies.” With a sigh, he leans back in his chair, glancing at the ceiling as he says, “It’s just guesswork at this point, but Gibran probably decided to keep a low profile. My gut says his head wasn’t in the best place – traumatized by what happened, guilty that he survived when his friends didn’t, maybe terrified of what he thought people might do to him if his abilities were discovered.”

Caitlin contributes thoughtfully, “You said he had black veins? It’s possible he could no longer pass for completely normal. Perhaps he decided to go into hiding until a better solution presented itself?”

Struck by the insight, the man known as Harrison Wells adds, “I’d suggest reaching out to any local doctors who specialize in poison; your victim may have tried to contact one of them for assistance.”

“Poison?” West blinks, thrown by the apparent non sequitur, but his eyes are sharp and narrow.

“Of course!” Caitlin says, excited. She smiles indulgently at both West and Barry as she explains, “Extreme cases of heavy metal poisoning can cause darkening and distension of the veins. And since everyone has access to the internet these days, the victim might have tried to diagnose his physical symptoms. He could have been searching for something that he could cure.”

West nods, “Thanks. I’ll look into it.”

“So, not to sound callous, but apart from being a metahuman, why are we interested in this guy?” Barry asks. “I mean, he’s dead. And while I support catching his killer to the fullest, a bullet to the forehead isn’t exactly our speed.”

West smirks at the pun, and then his expression melts into something smug and entirely self-satisfied. “Oh? So even with your fancy setup, you aren’t actually omniscient?” He pauses, a beat in which Barry squirms in his chair, looking slightly chastised. Finally, the older man says, “Okay, son, what if I told you that I already ran the bullet through the system and found a match? You remember that slug you pulled out of Clyde Mardon’s shoulder?”

The words are a kind of magic, and both Harrison and Caitlin straighten in their seats, prodded by some invisible force. Barry practically falls out of his chair in his haste. “The mystery shooter?”

“One in the same,” West admits. “Don’t get too excited. Gibran was shot at a distance, so the coroner wasn’t able to isolate any forensic evidence that would help identify the killer. Also, I took the liberty of having the tech guys comb the security footage from where the body was found, and they didn’t spot anything suspicious. Dude walked into what appeared to be a deserted alley way and never walked back out; body was discovered the next morning near a dumpster.”

“Once Cisco is feeling up to it, I’ll have him double-check that footage,” Harrison volunteers, eyes narrowing as he revises his original estimation of the mystery shooter in light of this new information. Until this point, the shooter’s agenda involved the use of lethal force applied in a non-lethal way. With this death and subsequent “harvesting,” the game has changed.

Quickly, before he misses anything important, he forces his focus onto the Detective’s mouth, which is still moving: “–but it’s another piece to the bigger puzzle, so I figured you’d be interested.”

“Of course,” Barry replies, nodding vigorously. “Thanks, Joe. I’ll, um – I’ll be by in the morning, take a look through the official reports.”

“Three bullets, one body, and still no clues,” Caitlin muses. “Is it just me, or does this mystery shooter seem infinitely more dangerous than the metahumans with the actual superpowers?”

There is a moment of silence and Harrison finally changes the subject, asking, “On a lighter note, Detective, do you have any idea when my wheelchair will be cleared from evidence?”

“Shortly.” West smiles wryly. His sighs, looking suddenly exhausted, but he continues, “I know that you and I don’t always see eye to eye, Doctor, but I imagine this entire situation has been bad enough without the added weight of wondering about your wheelchair. I’ll check with the lead detectives on the case in the morning, see if I can’t get her to speed things up.”

Not needing to fake the sliver of relief in his voice, Harrison replies, “It would be much appreciated, thank you. Also, I do have one favor to ask of you. Would if be possible for you to give me a ride home tonight?”

Barry twists in his chair, frowning in confusion. The young man opens his mouth, but ends up swallowing back his protests as Caitlin nods enthusiastically, “Oh, right!” Thankfully, he’d mentioned his difficulties to the young woman earlier, winning her full support.

Caitlin smiles at West, a small expression that brokers no nonsense. “If you can’t manage it, I’m happy to give Dr. Wells a ride. It’s just a bit of a trek because I’ll be coming back here afterwards.” She explains, “It’s important that Dr. Wells get a decent night’s rest; he’s still healing, and the beds available here?” She lowers her voice, a stage whisper as she jokes, “Not very useful for sleeping. Great for a concussion, though. So lumpy you wouldn’t even need someone to sit next to you and wake you.”

What the man known as Harrison Wells doesn’t admit is that he’s going stir crazy, stuck in the wheelchair without even his nightly ritual of being able to stretch his legs. There is no privacy in this warehouse, chock full of superheroes and supportive sidekicks, and if he spends another night confined without the use of his legs, he will snap.

Unbidden, Barry grumbles, “Maybe we should move one of them to S.T.A.R. Labs, what with the number of head injuries we all seem to suffer.”

“It has been two days since our last work-related injury,” Harrison volunteers, and Barry glances at him – those fucking eyelashes – and smiles shyly.

“Sure,” West agrees, glowering at the gentle flirtation. And while Barry sighs, a look of disappointment on his face – likely remembering his earlier promise of halftime – Harrison can’t help but feel this is for the best. At least, not until he can synthesize a paralytic to keep him from moving his legs and destroying fifteen years of hard work, the path to hell paved by the desires of his faithless penis.

Which is not a metaphor for anything at all.

***

When Harrison Wells wheels through the front door of his suburban residence, a small proximity alarm goes off on Len’s phone. Len double checks the security cameras he’s installed for this exact purpose, confirming that the good doctor is indeed present, and that he is alone.

Mindful of the echo that bounces off the high, warehouse ceiling, he raises his voice just enough to catch the attention of his crew. “Lisa, Mick, Roy – get your gear. We’ll start with Plan A.”

***


	47. [3/6] Episode 10: The Crooked Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I am incredibly sorry that I completely disappeared for... 10 months? Yikes! It’s been... well, real life hasn’t been particularly fond of me recently. On the plus side, I’ve lived through yet another birthday and my husband isn’t dead, so three cheers for that! On the downside, I’m still behind on basically every bill I have. Why is adulting so difficult?
> 
> (Also, I may have slipped into a pretty serious case of depression with the results of the US election. I don’t talk politics online, but I’m still really devastated.)
> 
> Okay, so that steaming pile of misery aside, I’ve started reworking the very beginning of this story once again. My intention is to do some small edits and corrections, add chapter summaries, double-check my foreshadowing, and get rid of some of the superfluous author’s notes. What does that mean for you? The next update might take me a couple of weeks to post, because I want to put everything is in order. Following that, I’ll do my best to get back to writing and updating regularly.
> 
> I have two major appreciations to send out: one, to everyone who has dropped me a comment in my time of disappearing, thank you so much! You kept me inspired on days where really all I wanted to do was crawl under my bed and hide. I promise, I will be responding to each and every comment over the next few weeks. And two, cardinalstar, thank you for putting up with my disappearing, my reappearing, and my general bullshit. You are invaluable to me and without peer.

***

When the doorbell rings, echoing through the hallway like a gong, the man known as Harrison Wells admits that his first thought is of Barry Allen. The flirtatious song and dance that has only just developed into something more – surely that’s worth an unexpected visit? His stomach curls into a tight, tiny ball, full of fierce anticipation, and he thinks about the heat in Barry’s eyes, the warmth of Barry’s mouth.

Intermission, Barry said earlier in the Cortex of the warehouse. Halftime.

In moments like these, which are readily becoming more and more frequent, he is at war with himself. He is two separate people, of two different minds. It’s inevitable, having waited _fifteen years_ to come this far, maneuvered and manipulated, crawled, clawed, fought, and bled. He has committed himself to his endgame, accepted that any means may be justified in pursuit of desired results.

He is the Reverse-Flash. He is a monster – _the_ monster – and he revels in it.

And yet – fifteen years. Fifteen years wearing another man’s face, and there is a part of him that is so thoroughly and deeply entrenched in being Harrison Wells that he cannot help but wonder – what if?

What if he embraced this role, Harrison Wells in reality and not just name? What if Barry knew all of him instead of the fractured pieces Harrison has allowed him to see? What if there weren’t years of bitter rage and unclaimed baggage between them, years of anger and hurt and _betrayal_? What if this beginning was _actually_ the beginning, not a clever ploy, a chess piece moved, a lie within a plot within a ploy?

... what if he could forgive.

It’s a ridiculous notion, a childish game, a bogus fantasy. His own words come to him, unbidden. Spoken not even a year ago to a comatose body.

_Nothing is forgiven._

At the time, he’d been teasing himself, standing above Barry’s prone form, a tantalizing exercise in restraint. He’d been so confident in his control of the situation, knowing how little effort it would take to drive his hand into Barry’s chest, how very easy it would be to stop the young man’s heart.

Nothing is easy, now. Everything is convoluted, complicated, muddy.

Because Barry is also two separate people, of two different minds. No matter how innocent his past – or rather current – self is, there will always loom the overbearing shadow of the future. A haunting distinction, a cruel juxtaposition: Barry Allen’s smiling face, tainted by the Flash’s blood-red cowl.

Deep down, buried in the dusty corners of his mind, Eobard Thawne hisses – _danger, danger, danger._

But which of these two iterations is the more dangerous? At first glance, the answer is obvious. The Flash – metahuman and monster, twisted together to form a single, terrifying nightmare. And yet, it is Barry Allen – sweet and saintly, who somehow systematically destroys Harrison’s every wall and defense without even trying.

Then again, he muses, if he is dwelling on monsters – well, perhaps he should give credit where it is due. It’s only fair, really, and he spares a moment – just a moment – to think on Nora Allen, on her blood slick between his fingers, on the stains that he has never once forgotten.

The doorbell rings a second time, pulling him from his thoughts of the late Mrs. Allen. A monster in name and thought and deed; the man known as Harrison Wells slips into his wheelchair, slips into his lie, and goes to answer the door in the hopes of fucking her son.

***

“Why Plan A?”

Lisa’s voice is quiet in his ear, tiny but profoundly clear. The advancement of technology constantly amazes Len, and he thinks about the large, boxy earphones plugged into his childhood walkman, and mix-tapes made on an oversized boombox. Now, the headphones his crew use are barely the size of spitballs, completely hidden within the cavern of a single ear, and their conversations are simultaneously recorded on a laptop as they happen.

Though his stance is casual, Len keeps his attention on the front door, hand poised to ring the bell a second time. Hoping for a touch of clarification, he asks, “What?”

Beside him, Mick shifts restlessly as they wait, a faint frown tugging the corners of his mouth. Len doesn’t blame him – is feeling pretty uncomfortable himself, though he won’t show it. Standing on Harrison Wells’ doorstep like this is strange and unnerving. They are exposed, raw like a nerve, and it’s setting them both on edge.

Lisa’s voice is calm and quiet in his ear. It helps. “Why Plan A?” she repeats, with a shockingly loud popping sound that tells Len she’s chewing gum, blowing big, pink bubbles between her teeth “I mean, okay, fine, I get why you wouldn’t let me call it Operation Shankabitch, sends the wrong message or some shit–”

There is a small, hysterical giggle over the line. Roy Bivolo. Mousy, anxious, and apparently between the nail polish and the beer, no one had thought to warn him about how bloodthirsty Lisa could get when she felt her family was threatened.

“–but seriously, Plan A? It’s so–” Lisa pauses, gropes for the right word. Finally, she huffs, “– _uninspired_.”

Len opens his mouth to reply, but Mick is quicker on the draw. Under his breath, he grumbles, “Had to be Plan A.”

In the interim, Len does ring the bell a second time. A small part of his mind races, curious and calculating. Harrison Wells is most definitely inside, but if the pompous ass continues to ignore the bell, they may have to jump forward to plan D. It’s possible Wells has cameras, possible he knows that there are two wanted criminals just waiting for him to open the door. It’s possible he has contacted the police – but no. Lisa is monitoring the CCPD’s radio frequencies from the van. She would know, and she would tell them to get the fuck out of dodge.

It’s also possible that Wells is on his way, but that it’s taking him a minute to get there. Len takes a breath, clamps down on his paranoia, and turns his attention back to the conversation.

“So helpful,” Lisa mutters in both of their ears, soft and petulant. She blows another bubble, pops it between her teeth like a gunshot. “But maybe you could enlighten me as to _why_?”

Though his little sister can’t see Mick roll his eyes, Len is certain she must hear it in his voice as he replies, “Because we’re using the _front door_. Front door. Plan A. Always.” Another pause, slightly longer, and Mick smirks and adds, “Duh.”

“Ugh,” Lisa groans. “Why are you such a fucking troll–?” but the rest of her words are lost in a haze of white static because the front door swings open to reveal Harrison Wells.

There is a moment – just a fraction of a second, really – where Len sees Wells’ face before the man fully registers their presence. Because Len is watching closely, completely attuned to the smallest shift in expression, he is able to spot – is that a touch of excitement? A hint of anticipation?

Whatever specifics Wells’ is feeling, it’s a positive thing for him. He’s practically glowing with happiness. It’s unnatural.

And then, in the split second it takes Wells’ to recognize just who is standing on his doorstep, Len watches with a touch of glee as that expression falls flat. Joy cedes to confusion, confusion to anger. Wells’ eyes are bright and sharp, and there is a faint curl at the corner of his lips, the beginning of a sneer. It’s like watching the man peel back a literal mask, Jeckyll to Hyde, mild-mannered scientist to something darker and far more dangerous.

Len feels the stir of anxiety in his gut and he forces himself to smile. This will not end like the cabin. He has plans in place, failsafes and contingencies. He has backup – Mick and Lisa and his very own pet impossible man.

He is not alone.

He is not afraid, but even if he _was_? On sheer principle, he'd refuse to give Wells the satisfaction of seeing it.

Len doesn’t retreat; he moves forward instead. He steps through the door, seemingly without care. Beside him, Mick mirrors the movement, a half-step behind, a watchful presence at his back. Deliberately casual, Len extends the bottle of Chardonnay with one, black gloved hand. 

Len keeps his voice smooth, as pleasant as he can make it, and stares down at the man in the wheelchair as he says, “Hello, Harry. I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

***

The front door swings open at the touch of a button, and the man known as Harrison Wells puts aside thoughts of dead mothers and betrayals, past and future. Instead, he chooses to focus his thoughts on Barry’s earnest gaze, on the blush that curls across the back of a pale, slender neck, on heat and speed and desire. He thinks of these things and he feels – warm.

And then he sees Leonard Snart standing on his doorstep, and the temperature abruptly drops. The fading daylight casts a faint glow around the man’s shoulders, sun sinking, slow and lazy on the horizon, and all Harrison can see is that _look_ on Snart’s smug face. It kills his budding libido instantly, a metaphorical bucket of ice cold water.

Harrison’s mind kicks into overdrive, observing, evaluating. Two men on his doorstep, Snart and his cohort, Mick Rory. Both men wear goggles, easily identified as S.T.A.R. tech by anyone acquainted with Cisco’s aesthetic. Snart’s hang around his neck like a noose, while Rory’s are pushed up onto his forehead, accessible at a moment’s notice. Both are dressed in casual clothes, comfortable and easy to move in, innocuous save the weapons holstered within easy reaching distance on their thighs, and the black, leather gloves that protect their hands from leaving stray fingerprints.

Rory is already looking past where Harrison sits and into the house. His keen eyes take in every nook, every cranny, scouring the area for threats and items of worth. It is a testament to the man’s career as a criminal that the action is automated, practically involuntary.

Not Snart, though. Snart’s eyes are on Harrison’s face, searching. Observing and evaluating in return. Apparently he must like what he sees because he steps forward, smirking, crowding into Harrison’s space. He boldly crosses the threshold, attempting to hand off what appears to be an expensive bottle of wine.

“Hello, Harry,” he greets, still smiling. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.” He glances pointedly at the wheelchair, and it’s all the man known as Harrison Wells can do not to surge up from his seat, close the distance between them in three furious steps, and rip that closed-mouth little smirk from Snart’s face with his bare, clawed fingers.

Oh, that _smile_. That smile could drive even a saint to murder.

The man known as Harrison Wells is no saint.

Gritting his teeth, he glares at Snart through narrow eyes as he replies, “Is that what you’re calling it?” He ruthlessly bottles his excess fury, forcefully pushing the wheels of his chair with both hands, jerking himself back to create space between himself and the unwanted intruders. “A polite enough euphemism, I suppose. Kidnapping me with the intent to torture information out of me – the wrong foot.”

Snart changes his direction easily, veering slightly to the right as he sets the bottle on a nearby half-table. He glances at Harrison’s face, head cocked to the side like an nosy child. 

“In my defense, I didn’t lay a hand on you.” Snart’s voice is thoughtful. “It makes that bandage around your forehead all the more interesting. What is that, exactly? A ploy for sympathy?” He scoffs, a small, audible huff of air. “Or did the angry yellow banana bruise you a little before he took you home?”

Harrison’s face goes slack, such is the force of his rage. The vision of his hands tightening around Snart’s throat, relentlessly crushing flesh and bone, it’s so real in that moment that he can feel the other man’s windpipe giving way beneath his fingers.

 _Of all the disrespectful, juvenile – you are dead, Snart. I do not know when or how, but you are_ dead.

“Interesting,” Snart muses, inching forward, eyes intent on Harrison’s face. “You don’t like it when I insult him.”

“I don’t like most of what comes out of your mouth,” Harrison counters, furious. He takes a breath, releases it, tries to calm the sweet craving to commit homicide. He wheels himself back, driving distance between them once more.

There is the quiet scuff of feet on the floor as Rory shuffles over to the edge of the vestibule. He hits the button on the wall, and the front door quietly swings shut behind him. The large man shifts his shoulders, cracks his neck. It isn’t meant to be menacing; in fact, it reminds Harrison of a hound dog settling on the floor, shifting and circling to find a comfortable position.

Rory transfers his weight from one leg to the other, juts his hip and shoulder out to brace himself as he leans against the wall. It’s the essence of a careless slouch, but like the hound dog, his eyes are bright with focus, and his hand brushes casually against the grip of his gun.

“You have something I want,” Snart begins.

It’s all Harrison can do to bite out, “If you say his name _one more time_ –”

“Your wallet,” Snart cuts him off with a sneer. “And your phone.”

“Ah. The fingerprints.” A pause, and Harrison continues mildly, “I had plans for those.”

Those fingerprints, the possible outcomes they represent, are a balm on the jagged edges of Harrison’s nerves. They guarantee that Snart or one of his compatriots will be incarcerated. A temporary measure, but soothing nonetheless. 

It is a solid reminder to Harrison that he is in control. Snart, for all his brash posturing, is here because he has no other choice. A knight, moving recklessly across the chessboard. No matter how strange and unexpected the shape, Snart is still just a piece on the board.

Whereas the man known as Harrison Wells? He is the omnipotent hand that moves them.

At this moment, both phone and wallet are tucked away in plastic bags in the hopes of preserving those prints. Harrison has been using a replacement phone, expressly shipped for this purpose. It was a simple matter, claiming his phone was lost in the explosion, and he keeps no personal information on the device save his phone numbers, easily transferred.

The wallet is a slightly more complicated matter. While the wallet itself isn’t conducive to holding defined fingerprints, the same cannot be said of the smooth, plastic cards inside. He’s already cancelled his bank card, and is waiting for a replacement to arrive in the mail. His ID card, though tricky to replace, isn't as difficult as a full license.

All of this because both wallet and phone must wait until S.T.A.R. Labs is fully functional before he attempts to lift any prints.

Snart’s eyes go dark and half-lidded at the mention of the fingerprints. His mouth pinches at both corners and he replies, “I don’t imagine I can threaten you into giving them to me–”

“You can’t,” Harrison says, thinking fondly of car batteries and metal pliers. “And to save you the trouble, I have the phone in this house. The wallet, however, is elsewhere.” Ironically, the truth. He’d forgotten the wallet at the warehouse in his haste to catch a ride home with Joe West.

“I could kill you,” Snart threatens abruptly.

Harrison smiles for the first time since these two men chose to invade his home. It is slow, controlled, and – judging by the way Snart takes an involuntary step backwards – terrifying. “You really can’t.”

***

Harrison Wells exists to defy expectation. Here is a man who should be off-balance, on edge because he is outnumbered and outgunned. His sanctuary, invaded. His pride, beaten. Here is a man who is two heads shorter than both Len and Mick, trapped in a situation he didn’t expect, without a single resource to call upon. He has no weapon, no means of communicating with his backup, and when it comes right down to it, he can’t even try to run away because his legs are useless.

And yet, when Wells informs Len that he cannot kill him... Len believes him.

Because here is a man who sat in a room with someone who would have tortured him – gladly – and escaped without a scratch.

Jesus, that smile. There is something awful lurking in the depths of Wells’ expression. Something inexplicable. Something sinister.

And in the face of that evil, Len cannot help but take a single step back. Breathing room.

Sounding much calmer than he did when Len and Mick first showed up on his doorstep, Wells muses, “I can’t quite decide if you’re brilliant or an idiot–”

“Tomato, tomoto,” Mick mutters under his breath like a curse. Having been the man’s partner for years, Len easily spots a fissure of tension in those broad shoulder. It deepens with every word Wells speaks.

“–but you’re not here for the fingerprints. Or rather, you’re not here for the fingerprints _alone_.” Wells tilts his head, considering. 

“Jesus,” Lisa murmurs in Len’s ear, “I’ve heard his voice on TV before, but I didn’t – I mean, has he always sounded like this?”

“Like what?” Roy asks faintly.

“I don’t know,” Lisa dithers, sounding frustrated. “Like he eats fucking babies for breakfast?”

Mick chokes on an inappropriate laugh, covers it up with a cough. Wells’ eyes flash at the perceived slight, and Len hastily steps up to distract the man, drawing his attention by appealing to his intellect. He asks, “You seem to have all the answers. So tell me, Harry, why _are_ we here?”

Wells smiles again, conceited and confident. “I’m your only lead on the Reverse-Flash and you were hoping to come to my home to show me that you’re in control, a step ahead,” he replies. “I’m meant to think, ‘you know where I live, so what else do you know?’ You want to rattle my cage and see what shakes loose.”

Unfortunately, he’s not wrong. 

“Maybe,” Len hedges, “or maybe the wallet and the phone are what’s important to me. And if you don’t hand them over, maybe I’ll start taking what’s important to _you_.”

“Threats?” Wells scoffs, “How mundane.”

“How much longer?” Roy asks Lisa over the ear-piece. He sounds terrified.

Lisa shushes him gently, then adds, “Relax, Roy. Let Lenny work his magic. You just keep an eye out for the angry, yellow banana, okay?”

Wells continues, “What is it you think you can take from me that I haven’t already lost? I’ll confess, I’m quite curious. My reputation is already in ruins–”

And there it is – Len’s not going to get a better opening then that.

“Why is that?” he counters, voice cracking like a whip. “You planned to take out half this city when your fancy machine exploded. You had to know there would be repercussions. I’ve known guys like you before – your reputation is your life. What was so damned important about your machine blowing up that you’d be willing to trash that?”

Wells goes very, very still. “‘Planned,’” he repeats quietly.

“Speculation,” Len says quickly. “I can’t prove it.” 

This moment is delicate. Harrison Wells needs to know that Len and his crew have pieced this information together on their own, have gathered scraps from the news and the police and the public and rebuilt them into something solid. He needs to know that they are clever and resourceful and closer to the truth than anyone else.

But Wells also needs to know that there’s no reason to kill them for this information. Len’s almost positive that the Reverse-Flash wants him alive for some reason, but he’s not in this alone. Mick and Lisa and now Roy, they need to be protected as well.

“Speculation,” Wells agrees, eyeing Len with the sort of detached fascination he might use on a particularly volatile experiment.

 _Take the bait,_ Len prays, holding his breath. _You’re used to being the smartest person in the room. It’s a point of pride, now. We can’t prove it, but we know what you did. So ask yourself – what else do we know?_

“All right, Mr. Snart,” Wells continues, and Len can’t quite keep the frown from twisting his lips at the sound of the name. “You want my wallet and my phone. There’s something _I_ want in return.”

“Eye for an eye,” Mick mutters, and Len could kiss him. It's perfect, just the right mix of petulance and impatience. He couldn’t have used a better tone to convince Wells that they're not a threat to him if he planned it himself.

Len cuts in quickly, “Terms?”

Wells doesn’t even glance at Mick. He says, “You’re a thief, I believe? There is a research facility in this city run by Tina McGee. She’s done some fascinating work on tachyon particles; in her most recent interview in Science Today, she mentioned that her company has managed a working prototype.”

 _Hook, line, and sinker._ Len finds himself able to breathe again. Outwardly, his expression doesn’t change as he replies, “Hacking the competition?” Then he parrots, mocking, “How mundane.”

Wells shrugs. “Think what you will, but nothing in this world is free. If you want the phone and wallet so badly, this is my price.”

“You and I don’t exactly have the sort of relationship that’s built on trust,” Len says. “I’m going to need a little more than your word.”

“Of the two of us, I think my word is by far the more trustworthy.” Wells smiles thinly. “Very well. You can have the phone now – a gesture of good faith – provided that you destroy it in front of me.”

After a short hesitation, Len nods his agreement. It’s a reasonable precaution to request, as they are bartering for whatever fingerprints may be present on the outside of the case. Besides, if it becomes necessary to access the man’s contacts at a later time, Len knows a couple of decent hackers who can clone Wells’ new device.

Wells continues, “The wallet you get upon delivery of the prototype. Considering the last time you had me at your tender mercies, you’re not going to get a better offer.”

“I. That worked,” Roy stutters, the voice in Len’s ear colored by disbelief. “Why did that work?”

Lisa is grinning, her voice stretched full and satisfied as she explains, “Harrison Wells is a smug bastard who thinks he knows it all. He never thought anyone would put together that he blew up his machine on purpose. When Lenny showed his hand, our crew became something new. Something to keep an eye on.”

Len pretends to think about the offer, making a show of glancing over at Mick. His partner shrugs, and somehow the rise and fall of his shoulders manages to convey that he’s leery of Harrison Wells, but that he’ll respect whatever decision Len makes. It’s pretty impressive, to be honest, and it gives them a chance to listen to what Lisa and Roy are saying without being obvious about it.

“I don’t – ah – what does that even mean?” Roy says, lost.

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Lisa quotes, chomping on her chewing gum with gusto. “Wells doesn’t know what to make of us, so he gave us a job to keep us close. Follow me so far?”

“Yes? But–” A quiet pause, hesitant. “He has the advantage, something we want. Why would he give that up?”

“Because Lenny made him think we have something more valuable, young grasshopper,” Lisa replies, sounding smug. “Besides, he still might try to double-cross us later on, but we’ll burn that bridge when we get there.”

Having waited a long enough time for his hesitant deliberation to be believable, Len meets Wells’ eyes and nods his agreement. “Deal.”

In Len’s ear, Roy asks skeptically, “Don’t you mean ‘cross?’”

Lisa laughs. “Have you met Mick?’”

The rest of the arrangement is brokered quickly. Wells produces the phone, which has been carefully bagged and sealed. Len takes a moment to rub the screen down with a disinfecting wipe from his own wallet. When they step outside, the sun is gone. Wells’ doorstep is mostly isolated, protected from prying neighborhood eyes by strategically placed foliage, but Len can see the tops of the street lamps, already lit.

Len places the phone on an empty patch of earth in a nearby flowerbed. Then, under Wells’ watchful gaze, Mick pulls out his flamegun and destroys the machine in a short, fiery burst, scorching the earth. The phone becomes a hunk of melted plastic and twisted metal, and that's one set of fingerprints down.

In the silence that follows, Len turns his gaze to where Harrison Wells sits in his wheelchair, half-hidden in the doorway. Shadows split his face, and a touch of light from overhead reflects on the lenses of his glasses, obscuring his eyes. He isn’t smiling, but he is no less dangerous for it.

“You’re a smart guy,” Len says, voice heavy with consideration. “The Rerverse-Flash is a monster. How the hell did you end up in bed with someone like that?”

Wells’ lips twist. It's not a smile. It's nothing like a smile. “I’d quip something about not being the sort to kiss and tell, but we’re all adults here. Who I end up in bed with, Mr. Snart, is none of your fucking business.” He retreats into his house, and as the doors swing shut behind him, he calls out, “Do keep in touch.”

Len and Mick exchange a glance, and silently agree to get back to the van as quickly as possible. They fall into step as they march briskly down the driveway and head to the sidewalk. 

Over the line, Roy asks, “How did you even know he still _had_ the phone and wallet?”

Len replies, “We blew up his lab. As far as I know, it’s still under construction, so it’s unlikely he would have had access to the supplies he’d need to pull a high quality set of prints off of anything. Plus Mick’s been keeping an ear to the ground with the police–”

“Fucker never reported being kidnapped,” Mick interjects without prompting.

“–which means he wouldn’t have turned over either item as evidence. Whatever he’s planning, it hinges on the police not knowing he got those fingerprints directly from the source. It has the makings of a perfect crime, because how could Wells steal fingerprints from someone he’s never met?”

“Long story short,” Lisa adds, “he wouldn’t trust anyone else with that kind of ammunition.”

Roy hesitates. “And now, we’re going to – um – steal something? For him, I mean?”

Len shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. We now know about something he wants. Maybe we steal it and trade it, or maybe we hold it hostage for a better deal.”

When they reach the van, Mick goes to the front door, slides into the driver’s seat. Len opens the back doors and slips inside, joining Lisa in front of the computers that are strapped onto the table. Roy shrinks away from them both, still uncertain, still afraid.

Expectantly, Len raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

Up front, Mick starts up the van. The low rumble of the engine is loud enough that Lisa snakes out a hand, turns up the volume on one of the speakers so that it’s easier to hear. A couple of clicks of her mouse, and a very distinct voice plays over the speakers, saying , “ _...end up in bed with, Mr. Snart, is none of your fucking business._ ”

Len finally allows himself a grin.

***


	48. [4/6] Episode 10: The Lotus-Eater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry and Cisco do some catching up at the hospital; the man known as Harrison Wells listens. A lot can happen in single conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have currently revised up to chapter 16, making small edits, deleting author’s notes, and adding chapter summaries. It's slow going, but I didn’t want to hold off until I was completely caught up because it’s taking longer than I thought it would. Thank you all so much for your support!

***

It takes Dante Ramon precisely thirty seconds to notice them in the doorway: the man known as Harrison Wells in his electronic wheelchair, finally returned to him by the CCPD with a lackluster apology for the inconvenience, and Barry Allen standing closely by his side. When Dante spots them, his face contorts, flickering through an impressive range of expressions, irritation and displeasure at war with grudging respect and weary acceptance. Still, he wastes no time in casually excusing himself from Cisco’s bedside.

Groaning as he gets to his feet, Dante says, “You know, I’m think I’m hungry. I’ll be back in a bit, okay?” Then he smiles, a touch of wickedness curling the corners of his mouth as he teases, “I’m thinking greasy fast food. Isn’t there a Big Belly Burger right down the street?”

Bruised and bandaged and stitched as he is, Cisco struggles to prop himself into a sitting position on the bed. He arranges himself with care against the mountain of pillows, his golden skin waxy, pale against the sterile white of the hospital sheets. He swats at his brother playfully, though the faint tremor in his hand reveals exactly how much effort the movement costs him. “Traitor,” he grumbles. “I’d commit any number of nefarious acts for a burger right now and you _know_ it.”

Shrugging, Dante adopts an innocent expression. He continues relentlessly, “Juicy burger, extra cheese, maybe some fried onions and barbecue sauce? Haven’t eaten all day, so I could do a side of spicy waffle fries, too.” He smirks – a fair approximation of the expression Harrison reserves for particularly vicious checkmating – then adds, “Almost forgot. They do a mean black-n-white shake, don’t they?”

Cisco makes a wounded noise. “You’re dead to me. _Dead_.”

The man known as Harrison Wells must admit, this new dynamic between Cisco and his brother is quite compelling. From what little Cisco has revealed, Harrison knows that familial relationships are strained for the young man. To slip seamlessly into this companionable ribbing, these two must have been exceptionally close as children. 

Dante chuckles. It is a soft sound, incredibly fond, a companion to the gentle wonder his eyes – as though he himself cannot believe how easy it is, to slot himself back into Cisco’s life as though he never left. He leans over the bed, pressing his lips to the side of his younger brother’s head and promises, “I’ll bring you back all of the above, _hermano_ , even if I have to fight that one nurse.”

“With the...?” Cisco trails off, gesturing to his own arms and chest. He attempts to mimic a bodybuilder’s pose, but the flexing aggravates his still-healing ribs because he winces, letting his arms fall back to the bed.

“That’s the one,” Dante confirms. He slips away from his place at Cisco’s bedside and heads for the door at a brisk pace.

In the precious few seconds it takes to cross the distance of the room, Harrison directs his wheelchair to the left so that he no longer blocks Dante's path. Simultaneously, Barry takes a step to the right. Together they are living bookends, framing either side of the doorway.

 _Curious. Intentional?_ Harrison wonders idly. To make Dante pass between them, the subtle insinuation that he is at a disadvantage, surrounded and outnumbered.

It isn’t a threat, not quite. But even at a glance, the message is clear.

Dante pointedly ignores Harrison as he walks through the door. An inelegant snub, really. But the young man does meet Barry’s eyes briefly, and he dips his head, a small, respectful nod.

“Brave man!” Cisco calls out to his brother’s retreating back. Dante doesn’t respond, but he does raise his hand, an acknowledgment that he has heard Cisco’s words. The older Ramon takes a sharp corner at the nurse’s station and disappears down the hall.

Distractions gone, Barry confidently strides across the room like he owns the floor, and the man known as Harrison Wells follows a halfstep – halfwheel? – behind. From his spot on the bed, Cisco greets them warmly, “Barry! Dr. Wells! Man, you two are a sight for sore eyes.” His grin is wide, an easy stretch across his mouth, and he amends ruefully, “Well, sore everything, really.”

“Cisco, buddy, you’re awake!” Barry’s entire face instantly brightens, delighted. He leans down, mindful of his friend’s injuries, and embraces Cisco in a very gentle hug – a hug which is carefully, enthusiastically returned.

Barry straightens and says, “It’s really good to see you.” He rubs the back of his neck ruefully. “And yeah, okay, technically I’ve seen you a couple of times already, but now you’re _aware_ and that’s. Well, that’s really great.”

From where he sits, Harrison can no longer see Barry’s face, but the young man’s voice is so expressive that a visual isn’t necessary. There is overwhelming relief lacing those words, and underneath that a crisp sliver of continued worry. There, on that last word, a tiny warble. It catches in Barry’s throat, refuses to budge.

Cisco makes a hasty grab for Barry’s hand, squeezing it tightly, a silent reassurance. Without releasing his hold, he manages the approximation of a shrug. Ensconced in pillows, the rise and fall of his shoulders is barely noticeable. “Dude, it’s so freaky. Apparently the painkillers I was on–”

“–the good stuff–” Barry mumbles.

“–made it so I can’t actually remember the last couple of days? Like, one of the nurses came in to take my vitals, and she’s chatting with Dante like they’ve been friends forever, and she made a joke about this constellation of freckles on my–” Cisco freezes, then stutters, “–that’s. Um. That’s not important. What’s important is that clearly this woman has _seen_ them, and I don’t remember it at all!”

As Cisco pauses to suck in a breath, Barry laughs and cuts in, “Oh my God, dude, I’ve really missed you.” Then, apparently remembering that Harrison is still in the room, Barry shifts to the side, glancing over his shoulder with a warm smile. “ _We’ve_ really missed you.”

Recognizing his cue, the man known as Harrison Wells nods his agreement as he directs his chair closer to the bed. Keeping his voice – if not cheerful, at least upbeat – he adds, “Indeed. Though everything is currently in a state of flux, from S.T.A.R. Labs to our ongoing investigations, I can honestly say that our work most certainly would have benefited from your presence.”

Barry rolls his eyes, a juvenile action that makes him appear years younger. “Mix about twenty percent more fuzzy feelings into that and you’re golden.”

Cisco laughs at their banter, not at all offended. “I’ve missed you guys, too.” Then, cautiously, “Though apparently you’ve both visited me a couple of times already? Dante told me that a lot of people have stopped by, but like I said, my awareness before today was nonexistent. Kind of makes me feel like a dick, actually.”

Harrison shake his head, exasperated. He cites, “Two cracked ribs, multiple bruised organs, innumerable scrapes, cuts, and abrasions. Oh, and lest we forget, a severe concussion coupled with the swelling in your brain.” He fixes Cisco with an unimpressed look, eyebrow raised. “Somehow I think the gaps in your memory can be forgiven.”

Properly chastised, Cisco nibbles his lower lip. “I – right. You’re right, sorry. It just doesn’t seem real.”

Glancing at where Barry and Cisco’s hands are still connected, clutching at each other as though their hands are physical representations of lifelines, Harrison nods slowly. “Quite understandable. Perhaps Barry can catch you up on the events that have transpired in your absence while I get us all something to drink.”

“Coffee?” Barry immediately asks, doing a half-twist where he stands to give Harrison a pathetically hopeful look. “With–”

“Extra cream, extra sugar,” Harrison says. He catches the pleased flush on Barry’s cheeks. Wonders idly if he can perhaps cause it to stain deeper, still. The smile that teases his lips is unplanned and he clarifies, “Dark roast if they have it.” 

“Right,” Barry mumbles, gloriously red, and the look on Cisco’s face as he glances between them is like a balloon, ready to pop.

As Harrison spins his chair, directs it through the doorway, he hears Cisco quietly leer, “ _Dude_.”

And perhaps better yet, Barry’s hushed hiss in response. Undoubtedly still blushing, the young man replies, “Dude.”

There is a vending machine at the end of the hall that dispenses hot drinks, but Harrison instead chooses to maneuver himself toward the elevator, dodging men and women in nondescript scrubs. The ICU offers a handful of visiting hours for non-family, and having just started, the hallways are already bustling.

A trip to the cafeteria should kill fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes. Enough time for the two young men to catch up uninterrupted.

Besides, Harrison’s lips twist unpleasantly, he has no desire to sit in on a rehashing of the last two weeks. Through no fault of his own, the information Barry will be passing to Cisco is incomplete. There are simply too many variables, too many secrets. Usually he would enjoy listening to Barry’s mind work, synapses firing with theories and rationalizations, touching on the actions of Eiling, the mystery shooter, and of course, the Reverse-Flash. But there is at least one more man who will be mentioned, and he would rather not hear Barry speak of him at all.

Leonard Snart, pest, thorn, proverbial fly in the ointment. 

The elevator is thankfully empty, and as the doors slide shut with a quiet ding, the man known as Harrison Wells makes no attempt to suppress the irritated sneer that curls his lips. He mashes his thumb into the round button labeled G.

The elevator jerks softly, starts to descend. Harrison takes a few slow, calming breaths. He allows his mind the freedom to wander, flitting through recent events at lightning speeds. Unbidden, he replays the unexpected confrontation with Snart and his associate a few days prior, examining angles and extrapolating data.

Judging by how quickly the two men had arrived at his front door, it seems likely that Snart has Harrison’s residence under some sort of surveillance. Inconvenient, but ultimately unimportant. Even taking into account how little time Harrison actually spends there, it isn’t as though he is truly hampered by the use of this wheelchair. Should Snart attempt to corner him, his residence is actually an ideal location because it is secluded. It is certainly preferable to S.T.A.R. Labs, where Cisco or Caitlin or Barry might see.

Still, if Snart is observing “Harrison Wells” at home, then it also stands to reason that he has similar surveillance on Cisco and Caitlin, not to mention S.T.A.R. Labs itself. By the same token, it is unlikely he’s watching Joe West’s home; if Snart did have eyes on West, he wouldn’t have needed to kidnap anyone for information on Barry’s status or location.

The man known as Harrison Wells concentrates, rewinding his focus even further back. There, in that sad little cabin in the woods, Snart had tipped his own hand during the onset of his interrogation. One sentence in particular, most telling, in regards to Barry Allen – _struck by lightning nearly a year ago, been in a coma ever since_.

It borders on the absurd, and yet from that statement, one fact is abundantly clear: Snart doesn’t _know_.

It isn’t simply a matter of Barry’s secret identity as the Flash; the man is on a quest to find Barry because he doesn’t know that Barry is _awake_. 

The man known as Harrison Wells dwells briefly on this realization. Months have passed since that fateful day in September when Barry first rejoined the world of consciousness. As of today, December is nearly gone. And yet.

It explains, very neatly, why Snart has made no move to contact Barry in these recent months.

It does _not_ explain who hired the mystery hacker to keep track of Barry’s continued health. Who else has an on-going and vested interest in Barry Allen’s health _before_ he became the Flash? Can this particular problem can be attributed to Eiling and his ilk, military supervisors interested in keeping an eye on Harrison's work? But no, that doesn't make sense because the program in question seeks out information on Barry and only Barry. Perhaps the mystery shooter? Harrison has already established the likelihood of the mystery shooter being a time-traveler, and whoever they are, they do seem to have an interest in Barry’s continued well-being.

It is with some difficulty that Harrison pushes his speculations aside. These are considerations for another time; right now, regardless of who is responsible, it changes very little.

There is something else to consider in regards to Snart, though. The man has become quite – bold? Brazen, even. While it could certainly be argued that kidnapping is a flashy crime, it actually pales in comparison to those precious minutes where Snart and Rory stood on his front doorstep in plain view and simply _waited_.

Why risk it? What could Snart possibly have to gain from such a foolish act?

A warning? A taunt? The connection between Harrison Wells and the Reverse-Flash is hidden in the shadows, tucked away in secret; by standing on that doorstep, Snart is essentially dragging Harrison’s criminal ties into the light. How strange, that Snart is willing to risk _himself_ simply to the show the world that Harrison Wells is guilty by association.

Ah, but wait – there is a second, far more likely explanation for Snart’s actions. No matter how tenuous the connection, if Snart establishes himself as Harrison’s associate, he simultaneously establishes both means and motive when it comes to the use of those stolen fingerprints.

In this era, there are security cameras everywhere, therefore a video of Snart in the vicinity of Harrison’s residence must exist. Should those fingerprints appear at the scene of any crime now, Snart can point to that video to establish a seed of doubt. Should a trial occur, it would be exceptionally easy to turn a jury’s opinion, because Harrison is not well-loved among the people of this city. He could track down and destroy those videos, but there is still the slim possibility that one of his neighbors might remember Snart’s face.

The cost-benefit of murdering all of his neighbors in their sleep is briefly weighed, ultimately discarded. The wallet with the fingerprints is no longer a viable option. It’s frustrating to admit, but with that one move, Snart has negated that any advantage those prints might give.

Annoying, but once more, ultimately unimportant.

Because Snart? Snart is playing a game, using rules established by crime and by business. What he cannot possibly realize is that the man known as Harrison Wells doesn’t actually _exist_ in this century. Harrison is bound by no rules save those regarding time travel. Whatever advantage Snart believes he has is meaningless; preserving his reputation, holding onto his fortune, avoiding incarceration, none of these things matter. 

Everything that is important to him will not exist for another century.

The man known as Harrison Wells pauses, bounces that thought like a ball against the walls of his mind. It rings false, and he begrudgingly amends, nothing that is important to him exists in _this_ century. Except, perhaps, for Barry.

The elevator dings again, doors sweeping open as he reaches the ground floor. He smoothes his expression into one of pleasant disinterest as he navigates his wheelchair through the open doors. The minute he is clear, a small group of men and women scurry into the now empty elevator like excitable rodents, drowning each other out as they yell desired floor numbers. One of them acts as a representative, pressing the appropriate buttons for all.

He directs his chair, continuing swiftly past the security desk. The guard on duty settles back with the realization that Harrison isn’t leaving the building, that he is in fact heading to the cafeteria rather than the exit. As he moves, he keeps a sliver of his attention on his self-appointed mission; the rest of his mind returns to his musings.

It is most curious how much information Snart has managed to piece together. No one should understand Harrison's motivations for destabilizing the particle accelerator, because no one has access to all of the facts: time traveler, nemesis of the Flash, Eobard Thawne. 

No one knows he is trapped in a time not his own, and no one understands that every action he has taken since that fateful night fifteen years ago has been in the hopes of returning home.

Harrison’s actions are public record, his words are recorded, broadcast, televised. Even taking into account his somewhat recent confession that he’d been warned of the _possibility_ of the explosion occurring, there is no concrete reason to suspect intentional self-sabotage.

So how did Leonard Snart – a man who still hasn’t managed to stumble across Barry’s fairly public recovery – come to that conclusion?

Ugh. If only Harrison could kill Snart _now_ , this entire headache could be so easily resolved. But no, until he is able to return to the future – his future – and ensure that the timelines are intact, Snart must remain amongst the living.

For now, Harrison must wait. Must embrace the role of scientist and observe. He has many questions. Where did Snart found his information? How has he pieced it together, stumbling across truths that everyone else has missed? Who else is aware of these troublesome accusations? And does Snart, by chance, have any other irksome speculations up his sleeve?

These are the thoughts that flickered through Harrison’s mind when he’d originally decided to dangle Tina McGee’s tachyon device as bait. To successfully suss out the answers to these questions, he’d needed a believable reason to keep Snart and his cohorts close. A thing of convenience, an item he wanted but did not yet have, the device sprang to mind.

Harrison has sketched out several admittedly vague plans to acquire Ms. McGee’s prototype, but upon further introspection, he must admit his hasty decision to use Snart has all the hallmarks of an excellent plan. After all, the ultimate success or failure of the operation matters very little; either result can be turned to his favor.

If Snart succeeds? Relieving him of the device is a simple matter, far easier than navigating Ms. McGee’s complex security system. If Snart fails? He and his associates will be arrested, guilty of a crime that Harrison will not need to frame. 

Oh, there exists a very real possibility that Snart will implicate Harrison himself in the theft, but charges of corporate espionage have miles of red-tape, peppered with loopholes. Professionally, his standing cannot fall further than it already has. And personally? His team knows that Snart has kidnapped him and threatened him with harm; it is highly unlikely they will believe any accusation spewed from that smug mouth.

Until then, success or failure, the man known as Harrison Wells will sit back and observe, ever patient, ever watchful.

As his thoughts reach a neat conclusion, Harrison arrives at the double doors leading to the cafeteria. While the entire area is self-serve, predictably the only station with a line is the one containing the coffee pots. The floor bustles with hospital staff and visitors alike, greedily pouring all manner of sweeteners and flavors into oversized Styrofoam cups. It takes a few minutes, but when Harrison finally gets to the front of the line, he is gratified to see a staff member switching out the dark roast with a fresh pot. 

Unsure of whether or not Cisco will be allowed to drink coffee, Harrison weighs his options and decides to risk it. He pours three cups; Barry’s is liberally doused with both cream and sugar, Cisco’s receives sugar only, and his own is left black.

All three cups fit snuggly into a cardboard carrier, and he steers his wheelchair to the end of the short line at the registers. As he checks out, he impulsively snags three chewy protein bars. Three different flavors, the common factor being that he has seen Barry gleefully consuming all of them. 

Harrison heads back to the ICU, head clearer than when he left. As he makes his way through the corridors, he receives several double-takes from passersby. After that initial surge of recognition, most people opt to ignore him, though he fields a couple of dirty looks with ease; nearly a year, and this city still hasn’t forgotten, or forgiven. No one approaches him, and it’s an simple thing, ignoring their disdain: he considers each face, made ugly with terror as he shreds them into small, bloody pieces. The elevator ride passes quickly, and no one on the lift questions the serene smile that graces his face.

When he returns to the hospital room, he sees that Cisco is still propped up against his pillows, but Barry has moved. He no longer stands by the side of the bed, rather he has chosen to sit primly on one corner. They are engaged in conversation, whispered but intense, and Cisco is animated, waving his hands to illustrate a point as he speaks.

One thing stands out of particular interest - Cisco’s color is greatly improved. It looks as though being in Barry’s presence has rejuvenated him. A side effect of Cisco’s burgeoning abilities, perhaps? Or is it more likely that he is simply drawing comfort from the presence of a close friend?

“So let me get this straight,” the young engineer says, wide-eyed and overwhelmed, “because if I’m hearing you right, Captain Cold broke into S.T.A.R. Labs to kidnap Dr. Wells? Only instead of actually torturing him for information – about _you_ -you, might I add, not Flash-you – the dude who killed your mom showed up to kidnap him back? For reasons we can only speculate, but likely because said dude is a giant jerkface who wants to screw with your head?”

Mouth compressed down to a thin, tight-lipped line, Barry slowly nods.

“And the facility where we located Bette was a bust? A trap, set for us by Eiling because while I was buried under six feet of rubble, he had an elite team sneaking into our Pipeline to steal _more_ metahumans, and the bastard actually _succeeded_. So now he has unfettered access to a human-explosive, a dude who can control the weather, a guy with iron skin, and – and Hartley.”

Another tight nod, more silence.

“And you called in a favor from – from _Oliver Queen_. I’m not going to freak out about that, I’m _not_ – but seriously, dude, Oliver Queen, what are you even?” Cisco sucks a deep breath in through his nose, lets it out slow and controlled as he visibly settles himself. He continues, “Right. So, the favor – Starling’s darling _bought you a warehouse_. And that’s where our two remaining metahumans are imprisoned, and that’s where we’re working from until the repairs to S.T.A.R. Labs are complete. In the warehouse. That Oliver Queen bought. For you.” 

A third nod.

“Okay. I may be freaking out.” A pause, then, “Am I – did I miss something? Because this is too much. It’s ridiculous.”

“Um,” Barry says cleverly. “Well...?”

Unimpressed, Cisco makes a face. “I am literally in shock right now. I am zen, totally desensitized; hit me, Baer.”

Barry nibbles his lower lip. “The Arrow is in town, there’s a new metahuman threat, the mystery shooter killed someone, and I’mkindofmaybeactuallydating–”

“–Dr. Wells!” Cisco exclaims abruptly, spotting Harrison in the doorway. His expression of mild panic is a firm twin to Barry’s embarrassed flush. Without comment, Harrison comes to a halt beside the hospital bed, carefully passing Barry a coffee cup and one of the protein bars. 

“Thanks,” Barry say brightly, tearing the plastic packaging open with his teeth and wolfing down the contents in two bites. He crinkles the wrapper one-handed, aims at the trashcan, makes the shot.

Harrison tugs the second cup from the carrier and offers it to Cisco, along with the a protein bar.

“Oh God, coffee mine yes,” Cisco gasps. The young man takes the cup, but declines the bar. He blows the steam from the open lid, cooling the top of the liquid with his breath. He savors a slow first sip, lets out an obscene moan.

“Are you allowed to be drinking that?” Barry asks, sipping from his own cup with a small, content sigh.

Clutching the cup to his chest as though he suspects it will be taken from him, Cisco deflects the question by quickly asking, “How did you explain Dr. Wells miraculous return without mentioning Cold or the Reverse-Flash to the police?”

Stealthily, Harrison slips a second protein bar into Barry’s empty hand.

Barry shrugs, tearing open the wrapper. He takes a bite, balances that with another sip of coffee, and replies, “A really cheesy cover story about finding him in the wreckage of S.T.A.R. Labs while I was collecting some forensic samples? It was pretty weak, all things considered, but Joe helped me fudge the paperwork.”

Cisco frowns, perplexed. “And the CCPD bought that?”

“I didn’t really give them much choice. Harrison corroborated the story, so it’s not like there were conflicting witness statements or anything,” Barry says, apparently compelled to defend the competence of his co-workers.

Another sip of coffee, another bite of his bar. Barry chews thoughtfully before continuing, “I can’t wait to show you the Flashcave.”

Cisco chokes, inducing an unfortunate bout of coughing. Barry drops what is left of his protein bar onto the bed, raising his hand to hover by Cisco’s shoulder. The aborted movement looks a little funny, but Barry seems to realize that pounding Cisco on the back would be an objectively awful idea. 

What impresses Harrison most, if he’s being completely honest, is that neither of the two young men spill a single drop of coffee in the commotion.

Eventually the coughing subsides and Cisco gasps, “Flashcave? _Flashcave_? Is Caitlin responsible for this travesty, because I invoke my power of veto. I don’t even know what it _is_ , and I think that’s a terrible name.”

“Felicity, actually,” Harrison volunteers, mouth curving into an indulgent smile. “As she was instrumental in setting up the computer systems at our new warehouse, she felt it only appropriate to offer her own suggestion as to what the building itself should be called.”

Barry nods, affirmation and agreement. He picks up the tiny piece of protein bar from the bed, polishes it off in a single bite, brushes the crumbs off the sheets with a flick of his hand. Impishly, he adds, “Caitlin _seriously_ hates that name, and we both agreed you get first dibs on the naming. I’ve just been calling it Flashcave because I’ve never seen anything ruffle Cait’s feathers so much.”

The three of them share a short-lived chuckle at the meticulously composed woman getting bent out of shape over something as silly as a name. 

“So, when are you getting out of here, man?” Barry asks. He picks up the wrapper from the bed and throws it at the trashcan. This time, he misses. He slides off the bed, moves to where the wrapper has landed, picks it up.

With a sigh, Cisco settles back into his pillows, wiggling as he searches for a comfortable position. He takes a sip of coffee and hedges, “Soon? I hope, anyway. I know they’re gonna’ transfer me out of ICU finally, probably today, but the doctors want to keep me under observation for a couple of days, at least.”

Harrison can acknowledge the logic in that. The unenhanced are so disturbingly fragile.

Barry tosses the wrapper into the mouth of the trashcan, along with his empty cup. Rather than return to his spot on Cisco’s bed, he moves to sit in the visitor’s chair instead. As he brushes by, Harrison takes the opportunity to pass him the third and final protein bar. The young man accepts the offering with a grin.

“That’s good,” Barry tells Cisco. He lowers himself into the chair, fiddling with the protein bar before opening it and taking a bite. “I mean, we need you back, but we need you _well_ , you know?”

Smiling, Cisco ducks his head, failing to hide his embarrassed pleasure. “Thanks, dude. I’m just grateful they cut back on the drugs. Sure, I’m a total wuss, three cheers for pain management, but half the time I was dreaming, and when I wasn’t asleep I was hallucinating, and I couldn’t really tell the difference between the two.”

His attention caught, the man known as Harrison Wells straightens in his chair, eyes narrow. Like a tennis ball, he follows the words, eyes darting back and forth between the two young men.

Barry makes a small noise, sympathetic, and says, “That sucks. What did you dream about?”

“Some seriously funky stuff, dude. I don’t even remember most of it,” Cisco laments. “Like, there was this one reoccurring dream I had with fire and ice and lightning. Also, a chessboard? And I think I remember this big ass gorilla? And something about killer machine bees, maybe?” He laughs, shakes his head. “There was more, but – well, I don’t know. It was weird.”

 _Oh, Cisco,_ the man known as Harrison Wells thinks fondly, _how much further will you go? How far can I allow you to grow?_

“Trippy,” Barry says. “Not unexpected, though. I mean, the stuff you said when Caitlin was here–”

“Dante told me he met her once,” Cisco interjects, brow furrowing. “But that she hasn’t been by since. Is she okay?”

Barry frowns, a small, hesitant twist of his lips. “Yeah, she’s okay.” He pauses, then adds, “I mean, when you were drugged up, you said something about Ronnie and it kind of upset her? She’s not going to hold that against you, though. I think she’s just been really worried, so she’s working overtime with Felicity, coming up with a counter to the abilities of the latest bad guy.”

Seizing on the topic, Barry continues to speak, running through what he remembers about Roy Bivolo for Cisco’s benefit. The man known as Harrison Wells tunes those words out because he is far more interested in the look on Cisco’s face.

At the sound of Ronnie’s name, Cisco frowns. A crease splits the middle of his forehead, tucked between his furrowed eyebrows. He mouths the word silently, as if testing how it tastes. A second time, barely audible, he repeats: “Ronnie.” Then, a look of intense focus as he strains to grasp – a memory, perhaps? 

“Wait, what?” Barry looks perplexed. “What’s wrong?”

Cisco gasps, his expression panicked. His voice is shockingly loud, and he seems to startle himself as he exclaims, “RONNIE!” Then, frantically, “Oh, shit, dude. Oh, shit, I forgot, I totally forgot.”

“Forgot what?” Barry asks, springing out of his seat as he rushes to Cisco’s bedside.

Cisco makes a wild grab for Barry’s arm, and his fingers convulse, pulling taut the fabric of Barry’s sleeve. The young man almost chokes on the words in his haste to speak them. “The explosion, Hartley, Ronnie!” He takes a breath, backtracks. “Right before the explosion at S.T.A.R. Labs, I was down in the Pipeline talking to Hartley, and he said something to me. He said – that Ronnie’s alive.”

Stunned, Barry counters, “But that’s not possible.” His eyes seek out Harrison, quietly unsure. “Is it?”

“Under ordinary circumstances, I would agree with you,” Harrison says, considering both the information and the source. “But one can hardly refer to the explosion as ordinary. Who is to say that the event that gave you your abilities – a miracle of science extrapolated from trauma – couldn’t also deliver another such miracle?”

“I don’t know,” Cisco mutters. “I don’t know, I don’t –” He shakes his head. “Hartley’s a dick, but he worked with Ronnie, too. I don’t think he’d have any reason to lie about it, and – he said there was proof. A video.”

Fascinated, Harrison asks, “Where?”

Cisco shakes his head again. “I don’t know, I can’t – I can’t _think_. S.T.A.R. Labs has security cameras set up all over the place. I’d have to access the mainframe, run a search algorithm, locate any visual phenomenon that aren’t accounted for. If I had a laptop–”

Seeing the despair on Cisco’s face, and the dangerous makings of a crusade on Barry’s, Harrison cuts in, “I’ll take care of it.” He reaches for his phone, considering the best course of action. The BuyMore is relatively close, and he can make a payment over the phone. For a small fee – and a generous tip – he is certain he can have a laptop delivered to the hospital within the hour.

Barry straightens abruptly and says, “We need to tell Caitlin.”

“But what if – and I’m probably not the best person to be asking this because I want to believe _so_ badly – but what if it’s not real?” Cisco counters, voice small.  


There is no uncertainty in the line of Barry’s shoulders, no room for argument in the clarity of his voice. He doesn’t even hesitate as he says, “Then we’ll deal with it. But Caitlin loved Ronnie, was going to marry him. It’s been almost a year and she still gets upset when she hears his name unexpectedly. We have to tell her.”

“With that sort of conviction,” Harrison says mildly, “who am I to argue?”

Cisco nods slowly, reserved. “I’d prefer to have some proof to give her, but – if it were me, I’d want to know right away. Can’t be a hypocrite, I guess.” He sighs. “I still feel like such a dumbass. How could I forget something so important?”

Barry quirks an eyebrow. “Head trauma? Concussion? Ringing any bells?”

In a fit of emotional maturity, Cisco sticks out his tongue and blows a raspberry. “Stop being all logical and forgiving!” he grumbles. “Can’t you give me a couple of good minutes to be mad at myself?”

“Um.” A beat. “Nope?”

Harrison snorts.

There is a quiet buzz from Barry’s pocket, and Barry has his cellphone in his hand instantly. He swipes his thumb across the screen, scans through a short text, then groans, “Ugh. Talk about timing. It looks like Felicity found a possible address for Bivolo.” He bites his lip, giving Harrison a sidelong look, eyes brimming with expectation. “She and Cait are at the warehouse, so I’ve got backup. Can you take care of everything here if I go check it out?”

Harrison takes a moment to consider the request, then nods his assent. “If Cisco wouldn’t mind going over what software I’ll need to purchase for this endeavor, I’m certain I can cover the rest.”

“I can do that,” Cisco says instantly. “I hate being useless.”

With another roll of his eyes, bordering on cavalier, Barry shakes his head. “Seriously, dude, I love you but you’re ridiculous. Busted ribs, bruised organs. _Concussion_.” He squeezes Cisco’s shoulder, then steps away from the bed, stating firmly, “That’s not useless, that’s _badass_.”

“Go on,” Harrison says, mouth curving into a half-smile. “Cisco will have what he needs to find out the truth about Ronnie. Dante will return shortly, and when visiting hours are over, I can make my own way home, I promise. Tomorrow, you and I will talk to Caitlin together. Acceptable?”

“What would I do without you?” Barry asks with a smile. He darts over, leaning forward into Harrison’s personal space. Heedless of Cisco’s presence, the young man steals an unexpected kiss. There is a spark, familiar and intimate. _Welcome_. The warmth lingers on his lips even as Barry disappears in a flash.

***


	49. [5/6] Episode 10: The Pauper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len and his crew visit Roy’s apartment, only to run into an unexpected surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay! I've been terrible this last week, didn't even get any editing of the early chapters done. Anyway, thank you kindly for your patience, and since it's late, I'll be replying to all of those delightful comments from the last chapter tomorrow. Without further ado, Len and his merry band of misfits!

***

“Okay, so here’s the skinny,” Lisa’s voice says clearly in Len’s ear; her tone is that of a teacher, information presented clearly and – mostly – concise. “A four person crew is straight-up _ideal_ , okay? It means you have a partner to watch your back, and you have a second team to back you up. Two teams, two people on each team. That’s like, the fucking sweet spot. With me so far?”

Roy’s voice is soft, subdued and reserved, the perfect contrast to Lisa’s exuberance. He says quietly, “Yes? I mean, it – it makes sense.”

“Hear that, buddy?” Mick smirks from where he sits beside Len. “You and me are hitting the sweet spot.”

Len gags. “That’s my sister, you ass.”

Mick shrugs, unrepentant, and replies, “Not mine.”

The two of them sit side by side in the back of the van, parked across the street from Roy’s apartment building. The neighborhood isn’t great, but the building itself seems in good repair, and none of the passing pedestrians have batted an eye at the unmarked van nestled between a paint-splattered work truck and a minivan that has seen better days.

Mick’s goggles are pushed up on his forehead, a place they have come to perpetually rest whenever Roy isn’t in the immediate vicinity. Even in the van’s muted lighting, Len can see the elastic has started to bite into the groove of Mick’s ear, and he makes a mental note to find something more comfortable to replace the strap.

Over the interface, Lisa continues blithely, “Right, so before you came along, it was me and Lenny and Mick, all of us interchangeable. We could make a team out of any pair of us with the third person as backup. But, see, that odd man out was shit out of luck if things went south. No one to watch their back.”

Roy doesn’t respond verbally. In the background, Len can hear the faint strains of smooth jazz – elevator music.

“It’s the best, y’know?” Lisa says, and Len hates and loves how very young she sounds in equal turns. After another moment of silence – likely accompanied by a roll of her eyes – she clarifies, “Having someone to watch my back.”

“Your b-b-brother,” Roy begins, and ah, the stutter. 

Is it wrong that Len finds a touch of amusement in that? Days later, and he doesn’t even have to be in the same _room_ as Roy to induce a stuttering fit. Len doesn’t know if he should be pleased or irritated that his threats of torture made such a lasting impact.

“Lenny?” Lisa asks, ignoring the fear in Roy’s voice. “Lenny’s my big brother, sure, but his partner is Mick. You saw it on our op the other day, how well they work together, fucking cogs in the machine.” 

“Partners,” Roy repeats. His voice is soft, yearning.

“Len and Mick,” Lisa agrees. Then, slyly she adds, “You and me.”

“I – what?”

Len has no trouble visualizing it, that teasing smirk that Lisa learned from him. She can be entirely charming when she so chooses. “Partners, Sparkles. You and me, we did good together the other day, when we were the backup in the van.” A pause, then Lisa grumbles, “And I swear to God, Lenny, if that was some misguided bullshit because you were trying to protect me–”

Len sighs. “Lisa, Harrison Wells has never seen your face, and he doesn’t know that Roy is working with us. He already knows me, obviously–”

“Torture,” Mick mutters under his breath. “Breaking walls and making acquaintances since the Spanish Inquisition.”

Lisa snorts, “Torture didn’t break the walls, the rocket launcher did–” and Roy makes a tiny, panicked sound.

“– _obviously_ ,” Len stresses, ignoring the peanut gallery. He continues, “And he saw Mick when we first kidnapped him from S.T.A.R. Labs. If he thinks that Mick and I are a two person operation, all the better. It has nothing to do with protecting you–” lie “– and everything to do with keeping our cards close to the chest. We need every advantage we can get.”

“You said–” Roy stops abruptly, still leery of addressing Len directly, even over a com-link. He hedges, “–the other day. You said maybe you’ll trade Wells what he wants, maybe you’ll make a better deal. What did you... can I ask? What you’re planning, I mean?”

In the background, Len hears a tiny ding from the elevator, an auditory reminder that Lisa and Roy have arrived at the correct floor. There is a shuffle of feet, then twin footsteps as they walk down the hall to Roy’s apartment. Lisa click-clicks as she walks, heel to sole of her stylish boots. Roy shuffles, cautious hesitation evident even in the sound his feet make on the floor.

“You can ask,” Len replies. He pauses, frowns, tilts his head as he carefully considers his words. “Think of it this way – Harrison Wells has – oh, let’s call it a rock. I don’t want it for its monetary value. I want it because it can be used against me. It’s ammunition, nothing more. If he throws it at me, he can hurt me.”

“A rock?” Mick mouths, incredulous. “The fuck.”

“Now,” Len ignores his partner’s expression and continues, “there are always options. I can go after the rock itself – destroy it, like we did the phone. Ultimately, though, I’m not trying to protect the rock. I’m trying to protect _myself_ , and so if I know _when_ he’s going to throw it, I can raise a shield. He throws the rock, it bounces off the shield and it never touches me. Make sense?”

“Y-y-yes.”

Over the line, Lisa’s voice is excited. “Oh, I know this bit! The wallet is the second rock, and we know he’s planning on chucking that shit at our head sooner than later.”

“Right,” Len agrees easily. “But we also know that he can’t be _seen_ throwing it at us. The only way he can attack us is if he does so from the shadows. _That’s_ why we stood on his doorstep where anyone could see. _That’s_ why we recorded the entire conversation. We establish our connection to him, we show he has both means and motive, and we use that as our shield.”

“Plus now we have it on tape that the asshole had ‘plans’ for my prints,” Lisa adds helpfully.

“So now we’re – safe?” Roy asks.

“Relatively safe,” Len amends. “Don’t forget, Wells has the Reverse-Flash. But Wells is also used to being the smartest guy in the room; it’s a matter of pride, and from what I’ve seen, he has that in spades. Until he can figure out what we know and how we learned it, we’re _relatively_ safe.”

“S.T.A.R. Labs,” Mick prompts, voice gruff. 

“Right,” Len nods. “Also, keep in mind that as far as we know, the Reverse-Flash also works in the shadows. Me and Mick have been pouring over reports of impossible humans for weeks now, and until he showed himself, we had no idea that he existed.”

“So while we also have _that_ on tape, Wells admitting that he’s working with the Reverse-Flash, it doesn’t do us much good because no one else knows he exists. But Wells also admits that he _did_ plan for his machine to fail. And while it’s inferred, not explicit, we still have it recorded. All we need is proof – a reason _why_ – and we can send an anonymous tip to the police to shut down S.T.A.R. Labs.”

There is the quiet jingle of keys, the unmistakable click of a lock, and the creak of a door opening and closing. When Lisa and Roy are safely inside Roy’s apartment, the man asks curiously, “Why do we want to shut down S.T.A.R. Labs?”

Though Roy cannot see him, Len rolls his eyes. “Using what I’ve explained to you so far, you tell me.”

The demand seems to catch Roy off guard. On the spot, he stutters, “I – um – bec-c-cause of Wells?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Len asks.

Roy responds with a small, high-pitched squeak. “Telling! I’m – I’m telling!” He continues, gaining confidence and momentum as he explains, “Because S.T.A.R. Labs is connected to Harrison Wells. And Harrison Wells is connected to the Reverse-Flash. And it – it doesn’t matter if we know what they’re up to because a laboratory is a resource. Take away the resource and you set back their plans, right?”

“Right,” Len replies, pleased that underneath Roy’s mousy exterior, the man does in fact possess a mind capable of making intuitive leaps of logic. After all, if Lisa wants him as a partner, he’s got to be able to think for himself.

“So...what you said before, about a better deal,” Roy says slowly. “You don’t want a deal. You just want leverage over Wells and the Reverse-Flash, period. You neutralize his rocks–”

Abruptly, Lisa giggles. “Oh, fuck, that’s perfect. Seriously, A+ analogy, big bro, but from now on, I motion to rename Harrison Wells’ ‘advantages’ to Harrison Wells’ ‘rocks.’ All in favor?”

Mick snorts. “Aye.”

Len gives his partner a slightly wounded look. The big man shrugs, unashamed.

Over the line, Lisa presses her own advantage and prompts, “Roy, say ‘aye.’”

Confused, the man replies, “I – what?”

Lisa’s voice is smug across the com. “There. Aye. Three votes to one, motion passed. So, Sparkles, you were saying?”

“I, um – what just –” Roy sounds hopelessly lost. “What just happened?”

Len replies, “Lisa.” At the same time, Lisa says, “I secured the rights to talk about Harrison Wells’ rocks without Lenny bitching at me for butchering his analogy. It’s fucking beautiful. Now, ask your question, grasshopper.”

“No – no question, really,” Roy admits quietly. “Just, I was confused because I didn’t understand how having something that Wells wants is an advantage if we have to trade it for something we want. But what you’re saying is that the wallet – the fingerprints – they don’t actually matter any more. So if we steal the tachy-thingy, that’s leverage.”

“That,” Len adds thoughtfully, “and I’m almost certain that Wells has a girlfriend stashed away somewhere.” He thinks back to the press conference, to the look of fond adoration on the man’s face. That expression – sweetness and longing – so very out of place on Harrison Wells’ face. Especially now, because Len has been further acquainted with the very real danger Wells presents, a wolf among the sheep. “If we can find her, that would be even better.”

“You want to run a game on her, Lenny?” Lisa asks, curious.

“If she knows about the Reverse-Flash, I can make her talk,” Len says. “If she doesn’t know about the Reverse-Flash, upon imparting my knowledge of the red-eyed devil, she’ll start asking Wells some uncomfortable questions – hopefully in range of one of the bugs that I’ll be planting on her clothing.”

“Wait,” Lisa says, and Len straightens abruptly at the seriousness of her tone. “What the fuck?”

“You okay?” Len asks. Unbidden, his fingers reach for where his coldgun is holstered, legs tensing, ready to launch himself from his seat. Beside him, Mick mirrors the motion, palming one of the phosphorous grenades he’s been itching to find an excuse to use.

“Seriously though,” Lisa’s tiny voice in Len’s ear is perplexed, curiosity coloring her tone. “Where the fuck is your TV, Sparkles?”

Len relaxes minutely, fingers falling away from his weapon. Mick makes a face, begrudgingly tucks the grenade away.

There is a slight hesitation before Roy replies quietly, “I sold it.” A second pause, then, “Bills.”

Beside Len, Mick shifts in his seat. The movement catches Len’s eye, draws his attention to Mick’s face where both eyebrows raise sharply. They fall just as quickly, but Len likes to think he’s fairly adept at reading his partner’s expressions, and that one right there is definitely trouble. 

“Laptop? Blue-ray player? Maybe a fucking i-pod?” Lisa’s voice grows louder with each suggestion, as though Roy’s lack of electronics is somehow personally offensive to her.

“Sold the computer and the DVD player,” Roy replies, voice mild. “And the DVDs. Didn’t make much sense to hold onto them without a television or a way to play them.”

Silence from Lisa. Len can easily picture her rolling her eyes behind the tinted sunglasses that are so large they seem to take up half of her face, whatever lethally sharp point she is about to make camouflaged by the innocent bounce of her curls and her pursed cupid pout.

The corner of Mick’s mouth quirks downward. It disappears almost instantly, but Len’s covert studying catches that hint of displeasure with ease. Apparently beer and nail polish is better for team bonding then he originally believed because it seems his partner is more – invested? – in Roy than Len was originally led to believe.

Lisa’s interest makes sense; she’s seen the way Mick fills in the gaps in Len’s plans, meshing seamlessly to cover each other's mistakes, and she wants a partner of her own to do the same. Mick’s interest, though – that’s unexpected.

“What the hell are we even doing here?” Lisa sounds put out, even grumpy. “I mean, okay, you said you wanted to pick up a couple of your ‘personal belongings,’” – Len doesn’t need to see his little sister to know she’s just curled her fingers into overly exaggerated air quotes – “but I have seen actual jail cells with more personality than this apartment. Like, do you even live here? Is this a joke?”

“Um,” Roy says, clearly taken aback by Lisa’s sudden viciousness. “I – yes? I mean, no?”

As Lisa is clearly working herself into a state of righteous fury for whatever reason, Len lets his head fall back against the wall of the van as he says, “Is that a question, Roy?”

“N-n-no!”

Really, the stutter is a nice touch. Knowing his sister, it will stir up her fond weakness for fluffy animals simply because nothing says small and weak like senseless, abject terror.

“Aw, Lenny,” Lisa coos in his ear, instantly defensive, “Don’t go scaring my partner! He’s only just out of the box!”

Lisa’s ire redirected, and Roy’s budding loyalty to his sister reinforced, Len allows himself a tiny, pleased smile.

“So,” Lisa continues over the line, “Sparkles. This apartment, what gives?”

There is a rustle of cloth – a shrug, maybe? – and Roy says, “I don’t – I mean – all of that stuff is just. It’s just _stuff_. I had to pay the rent, I wasn’t making any money, I sold it.”

“Why not just save your money and live in a box,” Lisa mutters, not entirely unkindly. 

Ah. Understanding of the situation dawns like a sunrise. In light of having spent over a decade on the road, jumping from hotel to motel to safehouse, Lisa’s indignation begins to make sense. The idea that Roy has an actual space to call his own and hasn’t bothered to personalize it, well. Blank walls and empty shelves, the sight of it probably bothers his little sister on a visceral level, without her even being fully aware of _why_.

“Oh!” Lisa’s tone does an abrupt 180, petulance instantly ceding to fascination, “What’s behind door number two–?”

A doorknob squeaks as it turns, a door groans as it swings open.

“Ah.” Roy’s voice relaxes, making Len wonder if maybe the man is smiling. “Those would be the ‘personal belongings,’” he says, an emphasis on his air quotes.

“Oh,” Lisa breathes, awed. “Oh, wow. Roy, this is – this is _amazing_.”

Intrigued, Len straightens in his seat, and beside him Mick does the same. 

“The important stuff,” Roy says, and his voice touches on sadness that seems out of place in the face of Lisa’s obvious astonishment. “I’ll just – um – I know I can’t take a lot with me, but maybe – just one art bin? And a couple of sketchbooks?”

“Uh-huh,” Lisa replies, clearly distracted. It takes Len a moment to remember that Roy claimed to be an artist, and his mind intuitively paints the picture. A sad, empty apartment, pathetic really, save for one room – a studio. Behind door number two, floors splashed with careless color, walls lined with canvas, stacked three, four pieces deep. Shelves brimming with tin cups full of paintbrushes, tips flared open with rigorous use. Tubes of paint, ends rolled up like tiny bottles of toothpaste, pencils and sharpeners and erasers jumbled together in mismatched piles.

Over the line, Len hears clinking and clattering, and Lisa’s tiny oohs and aahs as she rummages through what is likely the only place in the world that actually matters to Roy Bivolo. And Roy himself, silent and pathetically grateful to have a friend to share it with.

Beside him, Mick leans back in his seat, lacing his fingers behind his head and closing his eyes. There are no words further exchanged as Roy packs whatever supplies are most important to him and Lisa continues to snoop.

Len adjusts his blue-gray goggles around his neck, giving them an experimental tug as he keeps a half-ear to the com-line. He wonders if he can pick up several uniform pairs of sunglasses or goggles that will protect their eyes against the glare of his coldgun, the flare of Mick’s flamegun, and the glow of Roy’s impossible eyes. The mixing and matching his admittedly motley crew currently sports is not a look that lends itself to confidence.

Then again, in the end, perhaps leaving each of them with their own individual appearance is the better course of action. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being underestimated.

A moment is all it takes, silence and contentment abruptly ruined.

A crash, sudden, unexpected, has Len shooting out of his seat. A shriek – Lisa – and a whimper – Roy – and Mick’s already reaching for the van’s backdoors, yanking them open in one swift movement. 

“Talk to me,” Len demands, even as he sprints to the double doors of Roy’s apartment complex. Behind him, he hears his partner’s feet pounding against the pavement like an avalanche, unstoppable. Static and silence on the other end of the line, and Len repeats just shy of desperate, “Lisa, quit fooling around and tell me what’s going on–”

It takes Len precisely seven seconds and very little thought to pick the lock on the entrance, and Mick pushes the doors open and takes the lead, flamegun in hand. There, the emergency stairwell is just past the elevators. Mick throws that door open as well, and it hits the wall like a gunshot, echoing up the stairwell. 

First floor, second floor, third floor, they take the stairs two at a time in their haste.

“Lisa,” Len gasps as he runs, “what’s going on?”

But it isn’t Lisa who replies. In the wake of a deeply panicked breathe, Roy whispers, “Oh, God, you’re him, aren’t you? You’re–”

 _Him_ , Len thinks. His heart drops somewhere to the vicinity of his stomach, and he pushes himself faster until his lungs and his legs _burn_. They hit the sixth floor, and Len offers a silent prayer of thanks that Roy doesn’t live even higher in the building. He doesn’t even know how he managed to overtake Mick on the stairs, but his sister is in there and why isn’t she _saying_ anything?

“–alone,” Roy says, “Just leave me _alone_!”

There is an actual gunshot, reminiscent of the stairwell door, and the sound of it reverberates through the ear-piece, echoes through the hall. Len stumbles, picks up the pace, chokes on an unexpected mouthful of static that thickens the air.

Then – a streak of red, shooting by him in the closed confines of the hallway, just as he and Mick skid to a stop in front of the open door to Roy’s apartment. 

Lisa’s voice – and Len can breathe again because she’s alive, she’s fine – is audible over the ear-piece, but louder from one of the room’s within the apartment. Len follows the sound, and Mick follows Len, and his little sister is such an asshole, she actually has the audacity to sound disgruntled as she complains, “Fucking shitballs, Sparkles, but I did _not_ expect that.”

Roy’s studio is more colorful and chaotic than Len could have imagined, but he only has eyes for Lisa, standing half-hidden behind a stack of oversized canvases piled upright against a wall. 

“Lisa,” Len says, relieved. A corner of his mind continues casing the room, noting the bullet hole that punches straight through a piece of canvas, and a slug that needs to be dug out of the wall before they leave.

“Lenny!” Lisa replies, sparing him a glance as she smiles impishly and holsters her gun. “Shit, you got here fast. Sorry I didn’t reply over the line, but the Flash showed up and I didn’t want to give away my hiding spot.”

“Not the Reverse-Flash?” Mick asks from where he stands guard by the doorway.

Roy has been silent until now, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around himself like a shock-blanket. The slight shiver of his shoulders exposes his fear, and his voice wavers as he asks in a small voice, “There’s – there’s more than one? I–”

Lisa shakes her head, stepping away from wall. “Got to say, that thing you did with your eyes was pretty impressive. Did you get him?” 

“What?” Still on edge, Len spins on his heel, crosses the room in two steps. He grabs Roy by the collar of his shirt and shakes him, once, twice. “The Flash? You used your – your _mojo_ – on the Flash?”

“I–” Roy gasps, fingers splayed and scrambling weakly against Len’s chest. “I’m sorry, I didn’t–”

Inexplicably furious, Len hisses, “He’s red. I _told_ you the Reverse-Flash wears _yellow_. How could you possibly fuck that up?”

“Leave him alone, Lenny!” Lisa scowls. She is by his side in an instant, reaching out to lay a calming hand on his arm. The contact is unexpected, but not unwelcome.

Lisa is safe, unharmed. Unbidden, Len finds his fingers relaxing.

They tighten again, a surge of irritation flaring up in the fact of his little sister’s blatant insubordination. She is entirely too attached to the concept of Roy Bivolo as her partner, it spells nothing but trouble. Len grits his teeth and hisses, “He screwed up. He went after the _Flash_ instead of the Reverse-Flash–”

“Right,” Lisa replies, entirely unimpressed. “Because it’s not like anyone here has ever made _that_ mistake before.” A beat to let that sink in, and she continues, “Besides, I’m the one who took a potshot at the guy, seeing as how I’d rather _not_ be arrested and stuck in a secret underground prison.”

Logic from his little sister. Ridiculous. Still, Len glowers and begrudgingly concedes the point. “Fine. But just so you know, S.T.A.R. Labs is still out of commission, so it would have probably been the regular police.” He finally loosens his grip on Roy’s collar, lowering his hand and Lisa squeezes his forearm reassuringly before stepping away.

Roy shrinks away from him, shoulder’s hunching forward even as he takes a hasty step back.

Mick interrupts their argument with a quiet, “Why?” And when no reply is forthcoming, he clarifies, “Can’t blame him for defending himself, but why the mistake?”

Somehow the man in question manages to fold even further in himself. He whispers, “ I can’t – I can’t _see_ them anymore.” One hand comes up to hide his face – no, not his face, his _tears_ – and he makes a sorrowful sound. “I can’t see colors. After – after the explosion – it’s all... black and white. Grayscale.”

Startled, Len stares at the hand that covers Roy’s face – more specifically, at the horrible shade of green that still graces his fingernails. He remembers the words, the sad smile that touched on irony – _“It doesn’t bother me,”_ Roy had said – and suddenly, uncomfortably, the facts slot into place.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Lisa asks, voice gentle.

Miserable, Roy replies, “I thought – I mean, really, how many people can run that fast?” It’s not an answer, but it’s an easy thing for Len to put together the facts – an artist who can’t see color is about as useful as a thief without hands. 

Lisa insinuates herself next to Roy, laying her hand on his shoulder gently. When the man flinches, she shoots Len a dirty look, then she says, “It’s fine. Lenny’s just pissed because at this point he’s already burned pretty much every bridge we might have with the Flash.”

Roy’s misery and fear is a palpable thing, and Len can only imagine what he must be thinking. It makes sense now, because why would this man ever admit his perceived weakness to someone who terrifies him?

“Right,” Mick agrees, and Len turns to him, feeling slightly betrayed. The big man shrugs, “Not like the guy can hate us anymore than he already does? Besides, he doesn’t know the Wondertwins over there are part of the crew.”

“Not true,” Len counters. “He passed us on his way out, and I assume he can see just fine, even when running full speed, or there’d be a lot more crashing. He probably saw us when he left.”

“I don’t–” Roy stops. Bites his lip when everyone’s eyes turn to focus on him. “I don’t think he was – in his right mind. Before he ran, I did get him with – with fear. Terror.” Quietly, he admits, “It’s never been that easy. I’ve never – never felt that strongly.”

Well, Len muses, knowing what he does about Roy’s abilities, he’ll admit that sounds fairly ominous. He looks around the studio, then says, “It is what it is.”

It’s as close to an apology as he’ll allow himself to offer.

“Now, since we’re all here, let’s get your things and get the fuck out before someone comes to investigate that gunshot, hm?”

***


End file.
